


The King's Labyrinth

by tamriels



Category: Labyrinth (1986), Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Action/Adventure, Adventure, Age Difference, Angst, Bad Parenting, Crossover, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Family, Horror, M/M, Out Of Character Castiel, Romance, Sexual Content, Torture, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2018-04-02 01:38:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 94,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamriels/pseuds/tamriels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam is kidnapped by the Demon King Castiel, Dean must battle through his Labyrinth and kill him before he and his brother are trapped there forever. Little does Dean know, however, but he has been chosen for this since the dawn of time—and there is more than just one reason why Castiel wants so desperately for him to fail...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Tale of Two Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, 
> 
> Considering these are both two of my favourite things in the world, writing a Supernatural/Labyrinth crossover just makes a whole bunch of sense to me. This is actually the first fic I’ve ever published on here, so comments/kudos/bookmarks etc. would be really, absolutely, unbelievably appreciated. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy.
> 
> This fic is not primarily a Destiel story, but focuses more on Dean’s adventure through the Labyrinth on his quest to save Sam. His romance with Cas is a subplot, although it is still very important to the story, and I will also be exploring other pairings.
> 
> Some characters will be slightly OOC, but I’ve tried my best to keep it as close to their original personalities as possible. Characters like Castiel are COMPLETELY OOC, especially at the beginning, although I’ve tried to base him off his time as Godstiel/Leviathan!Cas as much as possible. However, as you read, you will notice that King Castiel is very much his own person, and I am really liking how he is turning out so far.
> 
> This fic is rated Mature for its strong violence, strong language, horror themes and sex.

_Once upon a time, there lived two brothers._

_These two boys were princes of another world, and they both had a powerful destiny that would one day be fulfilled—although they did not know this._

_The first brother: brave, righteous and good, was often left to care for his younger brother, a brother that was sly, damned and evil._

_The two brothers loved one another deeply, but it was engraved in their souls that once they learnt of their true identity, the second brother would betray the first._

_And so, both brothers would travel to the land that was their true home, and a brutal war would begin._

_The first brother—the Righteous Prince—would fight for his people, who were being held prisoner by the current King of the land, and the second brother—the Damned Prince—would fight for his place on the throne, where he would rule over his people, like the vicious king before that, with a cruelty so merciless that it would have the power to kill the plants that grew, and block out the light of the sun._

_In this Land of Lost Souls, the Damned Prince had always proved victorious, and the world had turned desolate, and wild. Souls that still believed in the Righteous Prince were beginning to lose hope that they would ever be freed from their prison, and when Souls lost hope, they would allow the wild and desolate land to change them into corrupt and vicious creatures— Demons—mindless slaves of the King, and damned to remain in their prison for all time._

_This was a cycle that had been repeating itself for longer than anyone could even comprehend; two brothers of the mortal world, chosen to fight for their land, while the King of Demons waited patiently for the next War to begin._

_Two brothers._

_Good and Evil._

_The Righteous and the Damned._

* * *

 The little boy played with the amulet around his neck, and looked up at the woman who lay on the bed with him.

“Will those people ever be freed, Mommy?” Dean asked, taking the thumb out of his mouth and snuggling up to his mother after she’d finished telling him the Tale of the Two Brothers that he always asked for when he couldn’t sleep.

“Perhaps, little one,” she said, holding him close. “But only if the Good Prince wins.”

Dean frowned.

“What happens to the prince that doesn’t win?”

Mary breathed out slowly.

“He would…”

She faltered, thinking. She did not quite know what to say.

“I’m not sure,” she said finally—and it was the truth.

Dean seemed more confident.

“Would he die?”

The question made Mary hesitate. He had asked her so easily, so definitely. Death did not scare Dean like she thought it would.

Mary said the only thing she could think of.

“I don’t know.”

Dean was not satisfied by this answer. He fidgeted in her arms, still with his hands enveloped around the amulet he wore on his neck. His eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“Did the brothers not love each other?” he asked.

Mary shook her head quickly.

“Oh, no, my darling; the brothers loved one another very much.”

Dean was perplexed.

“But, Mommy, if they did, then why did they fight?”

Mary sighed, searching for an answer.

“I guess, little one, because it was in their destiny.”

“What is destiny?”

“You can’t see, or touch it,” the young woman began, stroking Dean’s hair, “but that doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Destiny guides us through our entire lives. For instance, it was in my destiny to have you, little one.”

The boy contemplated, trying to weigh the meaning of his mother’s words. He tried to understand, at first, but then, something in him didn’t want to. He scowled. 

“I don’t care about destiny,” he decided stubbornly. “If I had a baby brother, we’d never fight, not ever.”

Mary smiled at her son. “You’re a sweet boy,” she said. And he was.

“Am I a prince, Mommy?” Dean asked, now looking up at her with his big green eyes.

“Of course you are,” Mary said, hugging him, although her voice seemed sad now. Knowing. “You should go to sleep, little prince; I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dean smiled at his mother and turned over in his bed. Mary kissed his forehead and tucked him in.

By the time she had gotten up to turn his light off, Dean was already fast asleep.

Mary looked over at her sleeping child for a moment longer—wearing that same, sad look on her face.

“Goodnight, Dean,” she whispered, and closed the door.


	2. Rude Awakenings

The jet black Chevrolet Impala had been parked on the hill on the outskirts of town for almost four hours. It was Dean’s favourite place; a hot spot for teens to drive up to at night to party and fuck, but during the day, it was quiet. Dean thought it was the most peaceful place in the world. He didn’t notice the empty beer cans or used condoms scattered across the mossy ground; he only saw the deluge of trees surrounding the area, keeping it hidden from prying eyes, and the unbounded view of the city that he had grown up in, that went on for miles and miles and miles and didn’t stop. It was so vast, that Dean couldn’t help but wonder; when he would watch the sun go down around him, and that ignited orange light set behind the earth all those miles away, was he staring at the end of the world.

God, Dean couldn’t wait to get out of that town.

He thought about it every day; packing a small bag with a few clothes and wads of cash, storing cans of beans and an apple or two—whatever he could get his hands on—and then getting into his car, blasting his Metallica cassette and not looking back as he drove towards that sunset, finally allowing himself to see what the end of the world looked like. Maybe he would say goodbye to Sam, but probably not. Maybe he would punch his father, or twice, or three times… or maybe he would go the whole way and stab him in the heart.

Dean hated his father. He hated him with every fibre of his being, and John loathed and despised him just as equally. Dean hated his entire family, and as soon as he turned eighteen, which was five months away, he was out of there.

Things hadn’t always been like this. There had been a time when Dean was the most popular guy in school, when he was happy, funny, flirty and kind, and everybody loved him. There had been a time when he and his father would drink beer together on the bonnet of the Impala outside their home, and tell each other stories and laugh until they cried. And Dean’s mother would walk out, bleary eyed, telling them that it was two o’clock in the morning, and would they _please_ , for the love of God, go to bed. John would kiss her, which made Dean groan and cover his eyes in embarrassment, and then, without them realising it, Mary would have gotten herself a beer as well, and the three of them would have stayed up all night talking and laughing without a care in the world.

Those days were long gone, now. They were nothing more than memories. And Mary was nothing more than a ghost. She had been dead for half a year, now, although the fire that killed her still felt like yesterday.

Sammy had only been six months old, and was sleeping soundly in his cot which resided in the nursery overlooking the garden. He was a beautiful baby, with his tufts of brown hair enveloping his rosy, chubby face. He also had Mary’s glimmering green eyes. Once upon a time, Dean had liked that about Sammy, but now he shuddered to look at them. It was too much of a reminder that his mother was dead, and it was all Dean’s fault.

John had been out that night, drinking and playing pool with his hunting buddies. Mary was at home with the boys, relaxing in her bed with a much deserved glass of wine and a good book. It was eleven o’clock, and Dean was preparing to sneak out through his bedroom window and make the short bike ride to his girlfriend Lisa’s house. Well, _girlfriend_ was pushing it a bit. They went to school together, and Dean had been sleeping with her for almost four months now, but that was hardly what he would call a relationship.  

Although, Dean preferred it that way. He had tried the whole ;committed boyfriend’ thing in the past, but to no avail. Dean didn’t like ‘feelings’, or heart-to-hearts, or dinners with the parents; he liked making out in empty bathroom stalls, fucking in the backseat of the beloved Impala his dad had handed down to him on his fifteenth birthday, and, in Lisa’s case, sneaking through her bedroom window on a Friday night while her parents slept soundly across the hall. Dean liked Lisa. She was smart, and funny, and beautiful as hell. She was a great lay and was friendly and attentive enough without smothering him or getting on his nerves. Yeah, Lisa was sweet—although not sweet enough to make Dean reconsider his current lifestyle and start calling himself a one-woman guy.

As Dean put on his sneakers and opened up his bedroom window, relishing the warm summer air as it seeped through the gap and left a soft, soothing sensation on his skin, he thought to himself that life was good. He was going to graduate high school in a year and be free to do as he pleased. A lot of Dean’s friends were going off to college, but the only thing Dean wanted to do was stay where he was and work with his dad at the garage. He couldn’t believe his luck, being able to work with his dad every day, and then coming home to his mom and the baby brother he adored, maybe even going off to pick Lisa up and take her to the hill to see the sun set as he held her hand.

Yeah, life was good, he thought, as he perched on the window ledge, preparing to climb down using the vines that grew, weed-like, on the sides of the house.

Dean put a hand on the plant, and then, without knowing why, he froze.

His body was suddenly tense and rigid, and he was alert—perhaps waiting for something.  There was silence for a few moments, until there wasn’t. He heard someone scream his name.

“ _Dean!_ ”

It was his mother.

Mary had said his name a thousand times before, but this time was different. He had never heard her sound so panicked and hysterical before. Something was dreadfully wrong; he knew that for certain.

“Mom?” he called, pulling himself back through the window and into his room. That was when he noticed it—the smell.

Dean instinctively ran for the door—and yelped at its touch. The doorknob was red hot, and Dean threw his hand back instantly and cradled it to his chest. Swallowing back the pain, Dean grabbed a small towel that was hanging off the end of his bed, and covered his hand with it as he opened the door.

For a moment he saw nothing. There was no colour, only grey, and it was thick and it stung his eyes and made them water. The grey thickness entered his lungs and at once Dean felt as if he was choking. He coughed loudly and coarsely into the towel, and did not dare remove it when he had recovered. Before he had a chance to think what his next move was, he suddenly felt the right side of his body get warmer, and heard a sound that was hard to describe; like the violent crinkling of paper in a thousand brutish hands. Dean did not need to look to know that his house was on fire.

The far end of the hall was emblazoned in orange. Dean was transfixed to where he stood. For a moment, Dean felt like he had finally reached the end of the world, and was only metres away from the setting sun that he had watched every day for two years on the top of that hill. And yet, this sun wasn’t setting, if anything, it was rising, engulfing everything around it in a blinding wave of colour and heat; angry, violent and hungry.

This was nothing like the sun he was used to. Where was the peace? The tranquility? The still, contented moment of watching a day end, and knowing that it would appear tomorrow, lighting up the sky and reminding you that yesterday was in the past? And then Dean remembered that he wasn’t watching the sun from his car on the hill; he was watching a fire burning down his home.

Dean sprang into action. Sam and his parents’ rooms were right down that hallway, where the fire was approaching fast. Mary had only called his name a few moments ago, but where was she? And where was Sammy?

“Mom?” Dean called again, although his voice was muffled by the towel.

Suddenly, a section of the roof beside him caved in and fell, engulfing the mid-section of the staircase. Well, escaping downstairs wasn’t an option anymore, but Dean cared little about that at the moment; he needed to get to his family.

“ _Mom?_ ” Dean called out a third time, removing the towel from his face and letting his voice surge over the sound of blazing fire.

“Dean!” he heard a muffled voice say ahead of him. Mary was behind one of the two doors, and so was his little brother.

Looking ahead of him, Dean noticed that the fire was still quite high, so, getting down on his hands and knees, he crawled, one-handed, to the far end of the hallway.

 _You’re meeting the sun_ , he found himself thinking.

The heat was unbearable, and he could barely see anything through the smoke. Even with the towel covering his nose and mouth, Dean’s chest still felt tight and blocked, and he was finding it difficult to breathe.

“Where are you?” Dean shouted, although his voice was hoarse.

“We’re in the nursery!” he heard his mother say from behind the door. “We’re locked in, I don’t know how!”

Sam’s nursery didn’t have a lock, but Dean didn’t have time to question it.

“Stand back!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “I’m going to kick the door down!”

Mary took Sam to the far end of the room, and told Dean that it was clear.

Dean felt the tickle of a flame on his back. The pain was nothing like he had quite experienced before. The quick, sharp heat felt like electricity somehow, like freezing cold water dripping from the ceiling and staining through his clothes. Dean braced himself, and went in for a kick. The force almost made him fall backwards, but he steadied himself. The sound of Sammy crying from behind the door, and the electric, ice-cold heat that was emanating from his back only intensified his determination to get through. He tried for a second kick. It did not open, but he saw the wood begin to crack. The moment the fire had begun to engulf the nursery door, Dean went in for a third, final kick, and the door swung open.

He saw his mother, beautiful, scared and fragile, clutching on to his baby brother as he wailed in fear and confusion. He rushed over to them.

“Are you okay?” he asked urgently. “We need to get out of here.”

Mary seemed not to have heard him, and instead only looked at him with the eyes of a woman who had lost all hope.

“It’s happening,” she whispered, tears rolling down her smooth, pale cheeks. “Like he said it would.”

“Like who said?” Dean asked, wide-eyed and frantic.

For a moment Mary seemed lost in his eyes, looking at him as if for the first time. Or perhaps she was looking at him like that because she knew she would never get the chance to again.

“Mom,” Dean said, grabbing her shoulders and breaking her out of her trance. “We need to go. Now.”

Mary blinked, then nodded—suddenly alert.

“Take Sam,” she said, giving the wailing baby to Dean. “Climb out of this window, and don’t stop until you’ve reached the bottom.”

Mary had stopped crying. Her voice was authoritative and calm, as if she were disciplining a small child.

“Use the vines to help you get down,” she continued, urging Dean towards the window. “I know it’ll be hard, using only one arm, but God knows you’ve had enough practice sneaking out of that room of yours every weekend.”

If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, Dean may have laughed.

“You go first, Mom,” Dean said, but Mary shook her head rapidly.

“No, you children are the most important thing. Do it now, Dean!”

Dean clenched his teeth. He felt vulnerable, like he was a little boy again. “I can’t leave you here, Mommy.”

His words may have softened her in any other situation, but in this one, Mary had made up her mind.

“Go now. That’s an order, Dean.”

Mary reminded Dean of his father in that moment. It was an odd thing for his mother to say, but Dean understood that Mary wasn’t playing around. He had to obey her.

Dean breathed in gravely, and clutched Sam close to him and perched on the side of the window ledge. With his left hand occupied, Dean swung himself right to the vines and grabbed tightly. His mom was right; this was going to be hard.

Bracing himself for the unknown, Dean kicked off the ledge, and caught the wall with his feet so he wouldn’t crush Sammy through the force. Holding Sam tightly against his chest, Dean managed to use both hands to grab the vines, and lower both of them to the ground. Amidst the sound of falling rooftop and the roaring of flames, Dean could hear his mother shouting from above.

“Promise me you’ll always keep your brother safe!” she said. “Promise me you’ll love him and protect him. Don’t let this day change who you are, Dean!” Mary stopped talking as she began to cough violently from the fumes.

“You can do it, Dean!” she began to shout once more, although she sounded quieter, weaker. “You’re chosen, you and Sammy! He told me that you’d—“

But Mary was never able to finish what she was trying to tell Dean, for at that moment, an explosion erupted inside the house, and as Dean’s feet hit the ground, with a still crying Sam in his arms, he saw the rooftop of his beautiful home crumble, and collapse.

“ _Mom!_ ” he screamed, but he knew she could not hear him, not anymore.

* * *

Her body was still and lifeless under the ruin of brick and debris, her mouth slightly open, as if she was still trying to warn Dean of the horrors that would soon be upon him and his brother, even though she had no voice.

The beating of her heart began to lull into silence, although the cries of her children echoed far louder than the roar of the flames, or the wail of distant sirens.

As her eyes finally dimmed, she saw him, stood at the far side of the room. It had been years since she had last seen his face, but she recognised him instantly.

He walked over to her, and bent beside her broken form. He put a finger to her face, and brushed away a lock of her hair.

“Thank you, Mary,” the man said, smiling kindly at her. “You’ve fulfilled your destiny.”

She tried to speak, if only to ask him one thing, but her throat was filled with blood.

The man carried on stroking Mary’s face; long after her eyes had closed and she had let out her final breath, and Sam’s nursery had been totally engulfed by the flames. He caressed her cheek for a long while, all with that same, kind smile on his face—unfaltering, genuine, and content.

* * *

Dean did not realise he had been crying until he felt the tears land on his hand, and soak the photograph he had found himself holding.

He had not shed a tear for his mother since the night she had died. It wasn’t that he didn’t miss her, because he missed her every single day of his goddamned life. It was because he felt that he did not deserve to cry for Mary. _He_ was the reason that she was dead, after all. He had climbed down from that window first, and left her in that nursery to be killed.

A guilty man is not allowed to cry.

His father’s voice rang inside his head, like an echo, or a broken record. That’s what his father had said to him on the day of Mary’s funeral.

John had not uttered a word to Dean since the fire, and then, at her funeral, as they stood side by side, father and son, and Dean had felt his chest tighten, and his eyes begin to blur, John had looked at him with eyes so cold they almost saw right through him, and had told him that guilty men were not allowed to cry—and Dean was the guiltiest man of all.

John blamed Dean for Mary’s death, and so did he.

The fire department had told them that the fire had been caused by a small electrical explosion; completely accidental. Accidental didn’t matter. Dean had had a chance to save his mother, and he hadn’t taken it.

Dean wiped the tears away from the photograph he had been holding. It had only been taken a few weeks before the fire, and it was a horrible reminder of a life Dean would never have again.

His mother: beautiful and happy, sat on the bonnet of the Impala, with baby Sammy on her lap, smiling and waving. And then Dean, sat to their right, holding Sam’s hand and grinning at the camera.

Dean turned the photograph around. On the back, Mary had written a message:

_Two Brothers; Two Princes._

Mary had always called Dean and Sam princes. John had teased her for it, but she had never let that phase her.

Dean remembered the story Mary used to tell him when he was growing up, about two brothers who were princes, but belonged to a different world, and although they loved each other, one was always meant to betray the other, and they would have to fight each other for the land to which they truly belonged.

Dean had loved hearing it when he was a child, despite how dark and twisted it really was. Two brothers loving each other, and then stabbing each other in the back? All to fight for some mystical fucking land that meant nothing to them anyway? How could he have enjoyed that shit when he was younger?

A lot had changed since then. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man, almost; a sad, lonely man who had murdered his mother and gotten away with it.

He stared at Sam, laughing at the camera—innocent, and without a care in the world.

Dean _hated_ him for it.

His eyes began to tear up once more, and he gritted his teeth in anger.

“If it wasn’t for you,” he said, glaring at the child. “Mom would have gotten out first, she’d have been safe, and I would have been the one left inside.”

He crumpled the photograph in his hands, and threw it to the ground.

“If you hadn’t been born, my mother would still be alive.”

The sun was setting in the north, but this time it did not give Dean peace. All it did was remind him of the fire.

Dean looked away, feeling as if he might choke. To his right, a snowy-white barn owl was watching him from a branch. It stood out proudly against the darkened bark and leaves, and usually Dean might have found it beautiful, but not today.

“The fuck you lookin’ at?” he said, harshly. The owl remained still, but kept its startlingly blue eyes on him. 

“The fuck you lookin’ at, huh?” Dean said again, louder. Again, the owl just stared. It was unnerving.

Dean sighed, and rubbed his eyes. The coldness of his watch against his cheek made him blink abruptly. Half-heartedly he checked the time: five minutes to seven. 

“ _Shit!_ ” rasped Dean, remembering, rummaging for his car keys and placing them in the ignition.

He had promised to babysit Sam at seven o’clock for when John went out drinking. There was no way he was going to get home in time, and he could sure as hell bet that his father wouldn’t be pleased with him for being late.

As the Chevrolet Impala disappeared down the mossy hill, past the dozens of trees and back into town, the white barn owl watched it until it had completely disappeared from view.

After a few moments, it flew away.


	3. Bedtime Stories

It was ten minutes to eight when the Impala finally pulled up outside Dean’s home.

 _Home_. What a ridiculously inappropriate word to describe the shithole Dean and his family had been living in for the past six months. This wasn’t a home; this was a prison. Dean’s real home was nothing more than a ruin, now. 

When the flames had finally died down, Mary had been barely more than a sprinkle of ashes in the wind, and their once beautiful house now completely decimated by the fire. They could have rebuilt it, if they had really wanted to, but no one could bear the thought of living in a house that inhabited the ghost of Mary Winchester. If they had stayed where they were, the memory of that fateful night would have teared their souls apart, and left them nothing more than cold and empty shells of guilt—haunted by familiar faces and forsaken dreams.

However, moving to the rickety old house on the side of town, with the rusted swing set and dead plants, hadn’t done much good in helping Dean and his family escape their torment and move on with their lives. John had begun numbing his pain with alcohol, and, when that wasn’t enough, taking that pain out on Dean. Many of the bruises had faded, but Dean still felt them. It didn’t matter that they were gone—the imprints of black and blue and purple had been stained on his soul forever.

Sometimes Dean liked the pain, though. It reminded him that he was alive, and was paying for the murder of his mother with his own blood.

As Dean got out of the car, he saw the front door open, and John, whiskey bottle in hand, stumbled outside to meet him. He looked angry.

“The fuck you been, boy?” John shouted, although there was no one to hear him except for Dean. On the drive home it had begun to rain—now it was pouring. His jeans clung to his skin and water poured down his face in desperate seeps, like tears. Though Dean had already vowed on the way back never to cry again.

“Out,” came Dean’s response. His voice was sullen; almost bored sounding—as if the sight of his father’s scowl did not bother him, when in fact, John terrified him when he got drunk at home, and tonight was no exception.

“You promised me you were gonna’ be back for seven to look after your brother!” scolded his father, waving his bottle in frustration and spilling some on to the ground.

Dean wanted to look away, but he vowed not to be stared down by John’s drunken glare. He would not look away. Ever. He was going to stand his ground until the day John finally lost it and cracked a bottle over his head. It wouldn’t be the freedom Dean had been planning for, but it was a freedom nonetheless; one where her could be with his mother again.

“I lost track of time,” he told his father. “But, I’m here now. You go out. Want me to call you a cab?”

“Why the fuck would I need a cab?” questioned John, accusingly.

“You can’t honestly expect to be able to drive like that.”

“Like _what_?”

John was worse than usual. As he pointed a craw-like finger at Dean, and brought himself closer, so their faces were almost touching, Dean could smell the alcohol on John’s breath. It made him feel ill.

“Where’s Sam?” asked Dean, changing the subject, although he was speaking through gritted teeth.

“In his crib,” came John’s condescending reply. “You think I’m incapable of putting a kid to bed?”

“I didn’t say that,” replied Dean. Their faces were still eerily close.

“You think I’m a bad father, boy?”

“I don’t know,” said Dean, “would you consider getting blind drunk while an infant relies on you to be kept alive count as being a bad father?”

It was a bold move on Dean’s part, talking back to his father like that when John was already in such a state. He had done it before, and the scars he’d acquired over the past months had acted as a reminder of all the reasons why it was a bad idea.

Dean was sure that John was going to hit him, but his father’s hands remained by his sides.

“At least I never killed nobody,” was all John said—but it was enough.

Dean felt his fists clenching, and his self-control begin to waver. This was it, he thought, he was going to fucking lose it.

And then, his thoughts were distracted by the sound of a distant car engine. Looking over his father’s shoulder, he recognised the approaching vehicle.

Getting out of the car was John’s old friend and drinking partner, Caleb. He waved at Dean, although his eyes were knitted together in concern. It was common knowledge that since Mary’s death the relationship between John and Dean Winchester had been less than peachy.

John turned around.

“Evenin’ there, Caleb,” he said.

“Evening,” nodded Caleb. “Everything okay?”

“Just swell, thanks for asking. You ready to go?”

Caleb nodded, though the worried look on his face did not waver. John gave Dean one final look of disgust before turning around and walking towards his friend’s car.

“Bye, Dean,” called Caleb, “I’ll make sure your pop comes back in one piece.”

Dean smiled through gritted teeth. “Don’t try too hard,” he said under his breath.

As the car drove away, Dean ran into the house to escape the rain.

Dean stomped upstairs and slammed his bedroom door shut, not even bothering to kick off his muddy boots to lay on the bed. He wiped his tired eyes and sighed slowly.

He had almost done it—hurt his father in a way that there was no coming back from. Could he have killed John if it had really come down to it? Could he have played God and decided the fate of another person? Then he realised—he had already done that six months ago. A murderer was still a murderer, whether he killed one person or a thousand.

Dean thought about Sam.

This was his routine now. Babysitting his brother almost four times a week while his dad drowned his sorrows at the local bar. Sam had been a good baby until Mary’s death. Now he cried all the time.

Dean thought about Lisa. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks. In fact, he barely spoke to any of his friends anymore. Dean had been cutting class an awful lot these past few months. His school had tried to get in touch with John, to tell him that if Dean skipped any more classes, he was going to be kicked out for good. John was always too boozed up to give a shit, though, and Dean liked it that way. School, friends, Lisa… they didn’t matter to him anymore. They could not fill the hole in his heart, and the emptiness in his soul. Dean could not feel anything anymore, nothing except for anger, and hate.

Listlessly, Dean brought a hand to his bedside table. He was looking for the amulet he had had since he was little.

The amulet was nothing special, just a cheap, bronze-coloured thing that resembled a head with bull-like horns. It had been the only possession of Dean’s to have survived the fire. He would never admit it, but the amulet was a great comfort to him when John’s drinking got too much to bear.

Rummaging through the belongings that resided on the table, Dean could not feel the amulet under his grasp. Opening his eyes, Dean peered over—to find that it wasn’t there.

The amulet was _always_ there. Unless it was around his neck, Dean would, without fail, place it on his bedside table where it would wait patiently to be worn again.

Then Dean remembered. Sam liked the amulet too.

“That little…” Dean rasped under his breath, getting up off his bed and storming out of his room.

Opening the door of Sam’s nursery, a shadow of the nursery they had had in their old house, Dean saw his brother clutching on to the amulet with an almost fierce protectiveness, sleeping soundly in his cot.

“Goddammit, Sam!” Dean said, walking over to him and grabbing the amulet from Sammy’s grasp. “What have I told you about stealing my stuff?”

At once, Sam awoke, and began to bawl.

“Shut up,” snapped Dean, placing the amulet around his neck; absent-mindedly fingering the bronze head and relishing the coldness it left against his fingertips.

Sam had stood up, and was now shaking at the bars of the crib.

“Shut up, would you?”

The rain had gotten worse, and was now thrashing violently against the nursery window. A flash of lightening lit up the room, and Sam’s wailings prevailed.

“God,” whispered Dean, closing his eyes amidst the chaos. “Somebody take me away from this place.”

His thoughts were interrupted by a deafening strike of thunder. Sam recoiled and sobbed for the attention of his older brother.

“What the hell do you want, huh?” glared Dean. “One of Mom’s stories?”

Sam looked up at Dean, and whimpered.

“Okay,” the older boy said, sitting on the edge of the spare bed. “If that’ll shut you up.”

“Once upon a time…” he began, and although the words were sincere, his voice was addled with resentment and malice. “…there lived two brothers.”

Dean stood up from the bed and walked slowly towards the dirtied mirror that hung from the far wall.

“The first brother: brave, righteous and good… with chiselled, handsome features and a talent with the ladies, although he would never admit it,” smirked Dean, looking at himself admirably in the mirror, “was often left to care for his younger brother; a brother that was sly, damned and evil.” With that, he looked at Sam through the mirror, and glared at him through cold, unforgiving eyes.

Dean turned, and began walking back towards the crib.

“The first brother loved his younger one dearly, but was treated so harshly by him and his father, that he was practically a slave.”

Sam began to cry again, but Dean ignored it.

“The King of the Demons had watched the two brothers closely for many years, and amidst his ruling, and killing, and fucking, he had grown to pity the first brother, and had given him certain powers.”

Dean smirked as his brother whined from behind the cot, clutching on to the bars with his chubby hands, and snivelling with discomfort and fear.

“So one night,” continued Dean, “when the second brother had been particularly cruel to him, he called on the demons for help.”

_Underneath the earth, or perhaps above it, or on its side, two demons held their heads against a wall, giggling together madly as they listened to a boy fulfil a prophecy that had been written so many eons ago, people had almost thought it would never happen._

_“Shut your hole!” the first demon barked, grabbing the other by its matted hair. “Listen!”_

“‘Say your right words,'” the demons said,” mimicked Dean callously, “‘and we’ll take your brother to the castle, and you will be free!' But the boy knew that the Demon King would keep his brother in his castle forever and ever and ever, and turn him into a demon. And so the Righteous Prince suffered in silence, until one day, when he was tired from a day of beatings from his father, and was hurt by the harsh orders of his younger brother, that he could no longer stand it…”

Sam was shaking wildly at the crib bars, and crying so loudly that he almost drowned out the sound of the pouring rain that was stabbing relentlessly against the windowpane. Dare he admit it, but Dean was actually enjoying himself. Mary had only told him that story once, long ago, when the thunder was just as fierce, and the rain just as wild, and her eyes seemed wide and unfocused, as if somebody else was speaking through her.

Dean sighed. Maybe he had had enough fun for one night. He’d succeeded in terrorising a baby during a thunderstorm, and perhaps now it was time to stop before he scarred his baby brother for life—although the thought was tempting.

“Alright, alright…” he said, picking Sam up from the crib and rocking him awkwardly from side-to-side. He had watched Mary do this many times before the fire, and it had always soothed his brother’s tears.

After two minutes, Sam’s cries were as loud and relentless as when he had first started.

“God, quiet it down, would you?” Dean said through his brother’s wails. “You want me to say the words? I will, you know. Don’t think I’m bluffing.”

_The two demons gasped, their black eyes widening as they whined excitedly through rotted teeth and blackened tongues._

Dean stared down at his brother, and spoke quietly.

“I wish… I wish…”

_The second demon squealed, clapping its hands together and cackling manically. The first demon shook it harshly by the shoulders, and dug its dirtied fingernails into the second’s moulded skin._

_“Shut up, shut up! He’s going to say the words… listen.”_

“I wish…” said Dean a third time, and Sam struggled in his arms, desperate for release, crying so wildly that his face was stained with tears, snot and spit. Dean was repulsed.

“Oh, God, I can’t stand it!”

“Demon King!” Dean said, holding Sam high above him, as if in sacrifice. “I demand my freedom! Wherever you may be, take this fucking child to your world, and keep him there forever!”

_The two demons looked at each other._

_“What?!” they said in unison._

_“The bloody ‘ell was that?” screeched the first demon. “Did that stupid whore not tell him the story right or summin’?”_

Sam bashed his little fists against Dean’s, and he sighed in exasperation, lowering his baby brother from the sky.

“I wish I _did_ know how to make the demons take you away…” sighed Dean. “You’re such a pain in my ass.”

_The second demon screamed in frustration._

_“‘I wish the demons would come and take you away!’”_

_It looked at its elder in bewilderment._

_“The prophecy never told us the Righteous Prince was a bleedin’ half-wit!”_

_“Shh, my love,” came the first demon’s reply, stroking the second’s rotted face with an odd sense of gentleness. “Give him time.”_

Dean stared down at his brother’s wailing form as he placed him back in the crib. He knew that he should feel something, but he didn’t.

As he left Sam in the cot and walked out of the room, he stopped at the light switch and turned around.

“I thought I loved you, but now I know that you’re the reason why Mom is dead, and why John hates me. This is _your_ fault.”

He turned off the light so his brother was left to weep in total blackness, save for the random sparks of lightening that illuminated the room.

“You wanna’ know what happens at the end of _my_ story?” asked Dean in the darkness. “I wish the demons would come and take you away, and they do.”

With that, Dean stormed out of the room—only to be met with silence.

Sam had stopped crying.


	4. The End of the Beginning

Dean stopped in his tracks. His body became stiff and rigid, and he could not take one more step. He recognised this feeling; he’d had it six months ago when his house had been on fire.

Something was not right.

“Sam?” Dean called, turning slowly. The thunder was still loud, but all else was still.

“Sammy?”

Dean stepped into his brother’s room and attempted to turn on the light. Nothing. Dean tried to turn it on several more times but the power must have been cut off by the storm.

“Sammy?” Dean said again. “Are you all right?”

He listened out for a sound. “Why aren’t you crying?”

He looked over at the cot. Sam couldn’t have fallen asleep so quickly, could he? Not with the storm so loud and him being so worked up. Dean swallowed, and he found that his throat was dry. As he walked slowly towards his brother’s bed, he found himself dreading as to what he might find when he reached it.

He found the bedding crumpled and unruly. Putting a hand to it, he swallowed once more as he prepared to unfold the whitened cloth. The thunder was deafening, and Dean’s heart was pumping in his ears. Gritting his teeth, he pulled back the covers to find—

Absolutely nothing.

The cot was empty. Sam was gone.

“ _Sammy!_ ”

Dean immediately turned around and surveyed the nursery, desperately hoping that his brother had just climbed out of the cot and had wandered to the other side of the room—although he knew this was a fool’s dream. Sammy was long gone; he could feel it in his gut.

Something caught his attention—a rattling at the window. As he turned to look, he thought he heard a stifled cackle erupt from behind him. He whirled his body around, and he swore that he could see two shadows disappearing behind the door. Before he had the chance to chase them, he heard from behind him the nursery window blasting open, and the ferocity of the storm showering him with rainwater.

A white snowy owl with startlingly blue eyes appeared from the outside and soared in, it’s wings momentarily flustering Dean, almost making him lose balance.

That owl…

And then, the creature was no longer an owl. It was a man.

He stood in front of the window, his hands behind his back. He was taller than Dean, though not by much, and in stature he was rather slender and refined, although no one could deny the authority he upheld. His face was young, but his eyes—bright blue and dazzling—had an air of wisdom to them, alluding the sense that he had seen and done things that many others could never even dream of. His hair was the colour of a raven’s feather, the same shade of black that he wore over his shoulders in a long, flowing coat. His shirt, trousers and boots were black also, as if he had somehow been swept up into the night sky and his clothes had been dyed by the stars. His lips were pink and full, and were smiling at Dean in a way that sent a shiver down his spine.

Dean needed no introduction—he knew who this man was.

“I know you,” was all he said. He sounded a lot braver than he felt, and he was thankful for it.

The blue-eyed man smiled again.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I’ve been watching you for many years.”

His voice was deep, but soft—comforting, in a bizarre way, and yet eerily terrifying at the same time.

“So,” said Dean, clearing his throat, subconsciously trying to sound older than his seventeen years. “The stories were all true, then,” he uttered, almost more to himself. “But how—?”

The blue-eyed man held out a hand, and Dean immediately fell quiet.

“It all came down to this day, Dean.”

He did not know how to answer that. This was all… so fucked up; there was no other way he could describe it. All of those stories his mother used to tell him when he was a child—they weren’t stories—they were real!

“Please,” whispered Dean. “Please, I want my brother back.”

“But you said the words,” the blue-eyed man said, matter-of-factly. “There’s no going back.”

“But I didn’t mean it!” dejected Dean.

“Oh, you didn’t?” The blue-eyed man smirked. “Somehow I find that very hard to believe.”

Dean sighed. He didn’t have it in him to argue.

“Please,” he said again. “Where is he?”

The man look annoyed for a moment. “Don’t play dumb, Dean, you know very well where he is.”

The blue-eyed man was right. Dean had heard the stories. He knew where his brother was being kept.

“Please give him back to me. Please.”

The man widened his eyes, in either surprise or frustration, Dean didn’t know. His blue irises were illuminated in the dark room, only getting brighter when another flash of lightening erupted from the sky.

“But why? I’ve finally given you what you want, Dean—your freedom! You can leave this town, escape your father forever!”

The man took a step closer towards Dean, and the boy flinched. The blue-eyed man smiled kindly, and spoke in a whisper. “You’re free.”

Maybe he saw it that way, but Dean shook his head.

“I can’t go. Not now.”

The man sighed, although he seemed sad more than anything else.

“Forget about the baby, Dean.”

Dean shook his head again, slower.

“I can’t.”

The blue-eyed man opened his mouth as if to say something, but changed his mind. He looked as if he were about to turn around, but stopped. Instead, he held out his hand.

“I’ve brought you a gift.”

And with that, a glass ball appeared, resting perfectly in his palm. The blue-eyed man looked down at it fondly.

“What is it?” Dean asked. He was looking at it wearily. Although it was beautiful, he did not trust anything this man were to offer him.

“It’s a crystal,” he said, and he looked at it again with the same fondness. “If you look into it, it will show you your dreams.”

He held out his hand farther.

“If you allow it, I can give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Dean looked at the crystal. It was beautiful, and pure—but it was not enough.

“I can’t accept.” Dean said, tearing his eyes away from the crystal ball. “My dreams mean nothing if I can’t have Sam back.”

The blue-eyed man swung his hand back and the crystal disappeared. He looked angry, but he spoke slowly… with control.

“You’ve changed your tune. Sam’s the reason your mother is dead, is he not?”

Dean looked up at the man, ashamed. The man spoke again.

“He has done _nothing_ for you, except take away everything you’ve ever loved. He has got what he deserves.”

Dean shook his head. “I understand what you’re trying to do for me, but please, he’s just a kid.”

The man scowled, again opening his mouth as if to say something, and closing it as he changed his mind. He turned away from Dean slowly, and stood with his back to him. For one horrible moment, Dean thought the man was leaving—rejecting Dean’s last plea for his brother’s return.

Instead, the man asked Dean a question, his voice deep and as soft as velvet. It reminded Dean of Mary’s; the soothing tone of it sending ripples down his spine. It was rather ironic, feeling safe and comforted by a man who had just kidnapped his baby brother.

“Do you know who I am?”

Dean frowned slightly.

“You’re the Demon King."

With that, the Demon King turned around quickly, and Dean’s heartbeat quickened.

“In the first War I was known as Castiel.”

“The first War?” Dean asked, but Castiel waved a hand dismissively, as if there were more important things to discuss.

“If you are so sure of who I am, Dean,” said Castiel, “then why do you defy me?”

“I’m not,” said Dean defensively. “I just—“

But before Dean could finish, he felt the force of four arms around him, subduing his struggling form. The creatures giggled in his ears, and he could sense the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh.

Castiel looked at Dean. He had no warmth in his eyes.

“Do you see those creatures, Dean? They are my slaves. They will do anything I ask of them.”

Castiel looked away, and peered out of the window, his hands grasped behind his back.

“You have no idea the power I possess. You cannot even comprehend it.”

“I can suck the soul right out of your body without a second’s thought. I can create storms that decimate entire cities. I can make lovers rip each other’s throats out for my own amusement. I can—,” Castiel sighed, and looked at the floor.

“I can do many things, Dean,” he said, shaking his head slowly, as if the power he welded was a burden to him. “But I am just. I am fair.”

He turned around. “Crowley?”

Dean looked to his right. A chubby man with dark hair walked cheerfully through the nursery door, his black eyes glinting as he smiled warmly at the king.

“Yes, sire?”

Castiel looked over at Dean, who was staring at Crowley’s bright black irises.

“Dean, this is Crowley, my second-in-command, if you will.”

Crowley smiled at Dean.

“Pleasure to meet you, darling,” he said, holding out a hand. “Dare I say, it’s an honour to be meeting you in the flesh, at last.”

Dean stared.

From behind Crowley, Castiel sighed theatrically, and glared at the two demons that were holding down Dean.

“Demons!” he said, “our guest can’t shake Crowley’s hand if he has his own barred behind his back, can he?”

The two demons giggled, and immediately let go of Dean.

“Sorry, my love,” the first demon said, and chewed absently at its fingernails.

Castiel did not bother hiding the look of disgust on his face, although he ignored the two creatures to address the black-eyed man.

“May I ask you a question, Crowley?”

“Anything you want, my Lord!” said Crowley, placing a hand on his heart, although Dean doubted it had a beat.

“Am I a fair king?”

Crowley feigned surprise. “Only the fairest of them all!”

The two demons behind Dean giggled eagerly.

“I only ask because our friend here is so distrusting of me.”

Crowley gasped in mock horror, “but you’re the most trustworthy king I’ve ever met!”

The two demons behind Dean laughed again. They were making a mockery out of him, out of his pain. At that point, he did not care that he was standing in a room with three demons and a king that could kill him without lifting a finger—Dean was pissed off.

“Listen, _Castiel,_ ” he said, and the two demons immediately grew quiet. “I’m getting tired of your bullshit! Now, you either give me back my brother, or you better kill me right now, ‘cause I swear to God I’ll—“

“You’ll do what?” asked Castiel. He was smiling.

“I’ll…” Dean’s voice trailed away.

Castiel smiled again; he was enjoying himself. “Listen, Dean, if you’d just let me finish, I was about to address how we could solve our little predicament, in a fair, completely unbiased way.”

Dean glowered. “Oh yeah, and how would that play out?”

With a flick of Castiel’s hand, a roll of parchment appeared, tied closed with a black ribbon—the same shade of the demons’ eyes.

“I am a fair king,” started Castiel, and Dean rolled his eyes. Castiel ignored him. “And I like to solve problems by making deals—deals that both parties can agree on.”

“Deals?” asked Dean, a little cautiously.

“Correct,” nodded Castiel. “Crowley, if you’d do the honours.”

With that, Castiel handed the roll of parchment to Crowley, who took it in his hands readily. He cleared his throat.

“ _I, Castiel, King of Demons, and ruler of the Land of Lost Souls, hereby allow Dean Winchester, son of Mary, to travel through my Labyrinth on his quest to collect his brother, Samuel Winchester, who is currently residing in the king’s castle._ ”

Crowley stopped reciting for a moment to clear his throat once more.

“ _If Dean Winchester is unable to reach his brother within three mortal days, Samuel will be turned into a demon, and Dean will be trapped in my Labyrinth as a Lost Soul forever."_

_"Does Dean, son of Mary, accept this deal?”_

With this, all eyes were on Dean. The two rotted demons giggled and whispered to each other behind him, and Crowley stared at him expectedly. Dean remained silent for several moments.

“Er, Dean,” said Crowley. “Now you either say ‘I accept the King’s deal,’ or ‘I do not accept the King’s deal.’”

Dean looked at Castiel, who was smiling kindly at him. God, he couldn’t wait to wipe it off of that self-righteous little prick’s face.

“I accept the King’s deal,” he said, staring down at Castiel with every ounce of loathing he could muster. Castiel’s face faltered slightly—but only for a moment. Recovering just as quickly, he clasped his hands together, and nodded decidedly at Dean.

“Oh, isn’t it nice the rain has stopped!” came Crowley from Dean’s right, and, looking out of the window, Dean saw that the blackened night of his desolate hometown had vanished, to reveal a night unlike anything Dean had ever seen before.

Dean was staring out at Castiel’s Land; the Land he had only heard in stories when he was a little boy—the Land of Lost Souls.

The sky was neither light nor dark. It was colourless, and yet it was not, in a way. It was murky, Dean decided, like a swamp.

He took a step forwards. There was no wind, or smell, or anything. It was as if Dean was looking out at a picture and nothing more.

“You won’t be able to beat me,” came a voice in his ear. It was Castiel. As he turned around, the nursery room, and all of it’s inhabitants, save for Dean and the King, had gone. They were both standing on a small hill, right on the outskirts of Castiel’s realm. In a bizarre, sickening thought, Dean’s mind wandered to the hill that he had spent all those years on, watching the sun go down back home.

This place was nothing like that. Not even close.

Dean glared at the blue-eyed man. What an arrogant, needy little bastard he was. How did he have it in him to be a King when he was so pathetic?

“I have to try,” he said, and he meant it.

Castiel walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Do you see that castle?” Castiel asked, pointing past Dean’s ear. Dean turned around.

Indeed, he saw the castle. It was nothing more than an ant’s home, now, although it loomed high over the Labyrinth’s walls. Castiel’s world was a desolate one. There was no speck of sunlight in that murky sky; no sense of life anywhere, be it plant or animal, demon or no. The world was quiet here, and Dean wasn’t sure whether that gave him comfort or sent a warning down his spine.

“That is my home,” Castiel continued. Dean could feel his breath on his face, and it made him feel odd. “You will find your brother there, that is, if you can reach him.”

Dean looked over at the Labyrinth that guarded Castiel’s castle. It was impossible to make out a direct route, for there were so many twists and turns. It looked endless.

“It doesn’t look that far,” said Dean, hoping to sound more confident than he felt.

Castiel chuckled. “It’s not the distance that should worry you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asked accusingly.

Castiel only laughed once more. “You’ll find out soon enough…”

Dean felt Castiel’s hot breath on his neck, and he tried to ignore the tight knot that was forming in the pit of his stomach. He turned his head slowly, half expecting the King to still be there, but, along with Crowley, and Sammy’s nursery, Castiel had dissapeared as well.

Dean looked out at the Labyrinth once more.

“Three days…” he whispered into the emptiness. It was too late to turn back now, even if he wanted to.

Picking up his feet, Dean walked promptly down the hill, trying his best not to think about the horrors that surely awaited him inside the King’s Labyrinth.

* * *

_Somewhere, amidst the walls of a mighty castle, guarded by creatures with eyes as black as coal, a blue-eyed man stared into his crystal ball, and caressed the figure inside it softly—a kind, contented smile painted on his lucent face._

_Everything was going according to plan._


	5. The Labyrinth's Door

It was a relatively short walk down the hill towards the Labyrinth’s entrance. Dean’s brown walking boots treaded softly against the ground, and his clothes would occasionally latch on to the snare of haggard-looking scrubs—as if even the plants of Castiel’s world were his slaves, attempting to ensnare Dean forever between their prickled thorns.

Dean didn’t know what to think. He marched down the hill quickly, but his mind was lost in a haze of questions and doubts.

He had never meant for this to happen. Wishing Sammy away… it had only meant to be a joke—a cruel, vicious joke, enveloped in a fury of grief and bitterness—but a joke nonetheless. He had not once thought that his mother’s stories were any less than, well, stories!

Dean wished he had asked Castiel about Mary.

Seeing the Demon King stood before him in his brother’s bedroom, with his glowing eyes the colour of an ocean at dawn, and the puckish smirk etched on his face as he told Dean that he would never see his brother again, had all been too much to deal with.

Dean hadn’t been thinking clearly in that bedroom. Hell, he hadn’t been thinking clearly for the past six months! But now his mind was sharp, and he wanted to know why, and _how_ , his mother had known all along that the Tale of the Two Brothers was real, and Sam and Dean were one day to be tangled in this parable of betrayal and war.

How could she not have told him?

If he had known, then maybe he could have stopped this. All of it.

Dean thought about the fire, or, more specifically, something his mother had said during the fire.

_“It’s happening. Like he said it would.”_

Had Mary known all along that a fire would burn down their home and kill her? Had somebody told her? Warned her?

Why hadn’t she warned her family?

Dean shook his head and gritted his teeth. Before this day, Dean thought he had known everything there was to know about Mary Winchester, but it turned out she had been keeping secrets from her family for years. She had even been willing to die with them.

Dean now realised, with a slight twinge in his heart, that he had barely known his mother at all.

Dean contemplated the issue at hand, and had to fight back a shudder—if he didn’t make it to Castiel’s castle in three days, then his brother was lost forever.

This was the second time Dean had betrayed someone who loved him. The demons that had held him down in the nursery, their eyes black and their skin the reek of rancid flesh—this was the future that awaited Sammy if Dean did not get to him in time.

Failure was not an option. He knew that much.

Dean wondered whether he would see Castiel again any time soon.

He had not been how Dean had pictured him from Mary’s stories at all. Dean had always imagined the King of Demons as a monstrous creature; an ungodly hybrid of brutality and evil, neither man nor beast, living or dead. Castiel, however, seemed nothing more than a man—with the egotistical, self-obsessed vanity of a man. The fact that he was a king at all seemed almost like fraud.

Shaking his head at the thought, Dean used his hands to move the unruly bush-strays out of his path, gritting his teeth as the sharp, thorn-like branches scraped at the exposed skin on his arms, leaving tiny white scratches.

Making his way through the last amount of shrubbery, Dean was met by a sight that both appeased and troubled him. There, a mere few metres away, was a giant wall, and in the centre of it, a door.

This was it, Dean thought, the door that guarded the entrance of the mighty King’s Labyrinth.

Dean took a step towards it. The ground between the marshy hill and the mammoth wall was an unappealing brown colour, much like Dean’s boots, and it was sparse apart from the odd rock and wilted bush. Dean looked to his left. The wall went on for miles and miles, and there did not seem to be an end in sight. He looked to his right, and it was very much the same. The air was completely still, and it seemed to be deserted.

Dean walked towards the door, and placed a hand on the looming ingress.

It was rough to touch. The rock, or whatever the door had been made of, appeared to have had parts eroded from time and weather, although Dean somehow doubted that the murky coloured sky and non-existent wind ever changed in this place. The texture was bumpy and irregular, and the whole door appeared to be in the process of disintegrating—as if the inhabitants of Castiel’s world had been locked inside their prison for so long, they had forgotten that this door existed, and so here it stood ignored.

Dean looked at the door more closely and frowned. After a moment, Dean noticed that some of the bumps weren’t just an outcome of smelted ruin; they were actually carvings.

Dean took a step back. Immediately, the picture became clear: faces snarled in savage expression; creatures fighting one another with claws as sharp as knives—and above them, on elevated ground, beings bent over as if in praise, their knees and foreheads touching the earth, as they bowed in servitude to the man who stood before them.

This man was Castiel. He stood straight and tall, with his arms lifted in the air. He was looking up at the sky above him, and a part of it seemed to be open, beaming light into his crystal-blue eyes.

Dean couldn’t help but laugh. Although he had only met Castiel a short while ago, his self-important arrogance could be seen unquestionably clearly in the carving on this door.

“You don’t half think the sun shines out of your ass, do you, Cas?”

Dean laughed quietly, hoping that the king had heard every word. Then he stopped.

He had called him Cas.

Clearing his throat gruffly, Dean composed himself and knitted his brows together in concentration. Getting to the entrance of the Labyrinth had been the easy part. Now, all he needed to do was actually get though it.

Dean scoured the door for a knob of some sort, something he could use to push or pull the door open with. He had tried urging it ajar with his shoulder a few times, but it hadn’t budged. He kicked it—hard—like the time he had had to force his way into Sammy’s nursery during the fire, but, again, the door stayed shut.

Perhaps Castiel was toying with him for making fun of the carving. If the king was one to hold grudges, then Dean had managed to screw himself over before he’d even had a chance to get into the damned Labyrinth! _Good going_ , he thought.

“Come on,” he said, rattling at the door again. “Come on, you son-of-a-bitch. Open up!”

Dean slammed his fists against the rocky texture, and groaned loudly in irritation.

“Swearing and kicking won’t get you anywhere,” came a voice suddenly from behind him. “The door has feelings too, you know.”

Dean whirled around.

There, stood in the clearing, was a woman.

She was smirking at him, and her hands were resting on her hips in such a way that implied she was mocking Dean’s door-opening skills, or in this case, lack thereof.

Dean had been sure that no one had been following him down that hill, and he had only checked the clearing around the wall moments ago, and he was adamant that the place had been deserted.

Dean did not trust this girl. He did not trust this girl one bit.

“Who are you?” he asked her harshly. “Where’d you come from?”

“But I’ve been here all this time, Dean,” said the girl haughtily. “You just haven’t been paying attention.”

Dean blinked.

“How do you know my name?”

The girl laughed and rolled her eyes.

“ _Everyone_ knows your name here, Dean. You’re famous.”

_Famous…_

“Are you human?” he asked the girl, his voice quieter, hopeful.

The girl laughed again. She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the whiteness of her eyes had been replaced by a sheet of black. No, this girl was not human, not by a long shot—she was a demon.

“Does this answer your question?” the demon smiled flirtatiously at Dean, whose own green eyes were wide with shock.

“Stay away from me!” he said, arching his body against the door. “Stay back or I’ll—“

“You’ll do what?” the demon asked. “Kill me?”

“W-well…” started Dean.

“You couldn’t,” she said flatly, crossing her arms. “Even if you tried. No one can die here.”

Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Seriously? Well then, I’ve got nothing to worry about, have I?”

The demon shook her head, tauntingly.

“Just because you can’t die…”

The black-eyed woman turned around and began to pace slowly, still with her arms crossed against her chest.

“The things that can happen to you in there…” she said quietly, her head nodding towards the door of the Labyrinth. “There are some fates _far_ worse than death, Dean, believe me.”

She stopped pacing, and looked at Dean. Her eyes had returned to their normal brown. She looked human again.

“How’d you do that?” asked Dean. “With your eyes.”

“Oh…” she started. “All demons can do it. It’s sort of like a light switch, see?” She then proceeded to close and open her eyes several times, changing them from black to brown, black, to brown again. As she stared nonchalantly at Dean for a couple more moments, Dean stifled a gulp. In the odd, half-light of the Land of Lost Souls, the demon girl with the brown eyes and brown hair was almost pretty.

“You said I was famous,” he said, in an attempt to break the silence.  

“Yeah,” the girl said jeeringly. “You’re a real _David Bowie_.”

Dean sighed.

“You knew I was coming?”

The girl puffed out her cheeks in contemplation.

“I had an inkling,” was all she said.

Dean sighed again. He was getting impatient.

“Listen, lady—“

“Meg,” she interrupted.

“…Meg,” Dean repeated slowly, deciding the best way to go about things was to change his approach.

“Look,” he said, his voice slow and clear, as if he were talking to an invalid. “I’m _real_ busy right now, and I kind of need to get into the Labyrinth pronto. So, unless you and your friends wanna’ come out and gank me, I’d really appreciate it if you could help me get inside.”

Meg stared at him for several moments, her face blank. Then, she smiled brightly.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more specific than that, Dean.”

Dean stammered, and stared at her in confusion.

“More specific?” he asked incredulously. “How the hell can I be more specific than that?”

Meg shrugged.

“You tell me.”  

Dean felt like bashing his head against the Labyrinth’s door—or hers. At this rate, three days would pass before he could even enter the goddamned thing.

“Lady…” he said, his hands rubbing at his eyes slowly, every part of him attempting to resist the urge of either hurting himself, or the demon girl stood before him.

“I have had a _really_ shitty day, but if you could tell me how to open that door—” Dean pointed behind him. “I would be extremely grateful.”

Meg pointed in the same direction Dean had just done.

“You wanna’ go through _that_ door?” she asked interestedly.

“Yes,” said Dean, as politely as he could. Meg’s face suddenly lit up.

“Well, why didn’t you say so, silly?”

Meg brushed past him so she was standing directly in front of the mighty structure. She was beaming.

“I haven’t had a chance to do this for the longest time!” 

With that, she brought her face close to the rock, and whispered something. She spoke so quietly that Dean could not hear what she was saying. Her voice was so gentle, though; sensuous. As if she was talking to a lover.

Slowly, the mighty door that guarded the entrance of Castiel’s Labyrinth began to open. It happened slowly, and the door scraped across the earth in a loud, monotonous groan. Dust and sand particles seeped through the air in an animated dance of freedom and ecstasy, as if they were finally waking up after a century of sleep.

Indeed, this door had not been opened for a very long time. 

It only made Dean wonder why Meg was on the other side of it.

* * *

Meg stood to the side to allow Dean to enter. As he did, he was met with nothing more than a wall very much like the one guarding the outside. Dean looked to his left, and saw an endless path that merely ended in fog a hundred miles away. Then, he looked to his right, and saw exactly the same thing.

Somehow, Dean wasn’t surprised. King Castiel was a piece of crap, and if Dean had thought that Castiel was going to make things easy for him just because he’d managed to get through one freakin’ door, then he had another thing coming.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” came a voice from behind him.

“’Beautiful’ wouldn’t exactly be the word I’d go for…” said Dean, scratching his head, and looking again from left to right in the hopes that he had somehow missed something.

He turned around.

“You comin’ in or not?” he asked the demon, but Meg shook her head.

“Oh, no, I can’t go in there,” she said, looking a little flustered. “I have to stay out here.”

“What use are you out there if Castiel’s kingdom’s _inside_ the Labyrinth?”

Meg only shook her head again.

“I have to stay by this door,” she said. “It’s my job, you see? Very important, like.”

Dean smirked.

“What use are you guarding a door that no one goes in or out of?”

This angered the demon, and she crossed her arms hotly, and turned around.

“ _You_ came through, didn’t you?”

She huffed, and then muttered to herself. “Couldn’t even open the fucking thing…”

Dean couldn’t help but feel a little bad, even despite his situation and the fact that he was talking to a demon.

“Sorry, lady,” he said. And he meant it. Ignoring Meg’s sarcasm and discourteous attitude, she _had_ helped him open the door and start his quest to save Sam. Although, he still needed one more thing from her.

“Hey, um, Meg,” he asked cautiously, remembering to call her by her name, and trying his hardest to sound polite. “You wouldn’t happen to know which way leads to the castle, would ya’?”

Meg snapped her head around, seething. Dean’s attempt at chivalry had obviously failed. God, his wooing abilities were _really_ slacking.

“How the fuck should I know?” she barked. “All I do, day in and day out, is stand outside this fucking Labyrinth with nothing but a few rocks and an easily offended door for company!”

The Labyrinth’s door made a loud, grating noise, and closed by a few inches. Meg looked rueful.

“Listen, Dean, go whichever direction you want; you’re screwed either way.”

Dean smiled sarcastically. “Gee, thanks,” he said.

“Whatever…” mumbled Meg, and began to turn around. Dean held out a hand.

“Wait,” he said. She stopped.

“What?”

“Are you sure you don’t wanna’ come inside?”

Meg rolled her eyes.

“I _can’t_ , shit-for-brains, I already told you! I’m the door guard—my job is to stay here.”

“Well, then quit,” said Dean. Meg laughed harshly.

“I can’t _quit_. This isn’t that type of job.”

Dean frowned. “What kind of job is it, then?”

Meg sighed.

“You know in your world when instead of going to prison, your criminals are forced to pick up used condoms and beer cans from the side of the road?” Dean nodded. “Well,” Meg said sullenly. “This is _that_ kind of job—minus the orange jumpsuit.”

Dean laughed, quite accidentally. Meg glared at him.

“What did you do to get stuck on door duty?” he asked. Meg crossed her arms.

“I don’t wanna’ talk about it.”

Dean shrugged. He’d wasted enough time talking with Meg. Now that he was actually inside the Labyrinth, he needed to go save Sammy before his three days were up.

“Well,” Dean said, beginning to walk down the path to his right. “Thanks for the help, I guess.”

After a few more steps, Meg said his name. Dean stopped.

The girl fingered at her black coat uneasily, and she looked down at the floor for a moment, then back at him. Her brown eyes glittered in the half-light.

“Don’t think this journey will be easy, Dean Winchester,” she said, speaking with tenacity. “There are many creatures in this Labyrinth who do not want you to reach your brother, and they will do _anything_ to stop you.” Her voice quickened, and the door of the Labyrinth made an uneasy sound, and began to close.

“Good luck, son of Mary,” said Meg, who was now disappearing behind the mighty door. “Because you’re gonna need it.”

As the door finally slammed shut, and the sand particles settled on the ground, Dean swallowed, and found that his throat was dry. He looked in the direction that he was walking down, and he saw nothing but an endless path, going on and on down a thousand miles of nothingness.

Dean thought about what Meg had just told him, about the creatures that would do absolutely everything in their power to stop Dean from reaching Sammy.

Being afraid had no purpose here, he realised. He had to be strong. He had to fight every son-of-a-bitch who crossed his path. He had to reach Sam. He _had_ to.

Walking down the endless pathway, Dean had only one thing on his mind:

_Save Sammy._


	6. The Prophet's Gift

It had been thirty-three minutes since Meg had opened the door and allowed Dean passage into the Labyrinth. The minutes ticked away so slowly Dean could have easily thought he had been walking for well over an hour, if it weren’t for the blue digital watch he wore on his left wrist that he found himself checking obsessively. No matter how many steps he took, the narrow passageway still remained one long, straight line, with not a single twist or corner in sight.

 _Come on_ , Dean thought to himself. _There’s gotta be something I can work with, here._

He attempted to jump, or climb up the brown coloured wall, but his attempts proved futile against its looming height and slippery texture. The same ugly foliage as outside grew in thick, rough tufts on the ground, spreading its way up the squalid brick like a weed.

“You better not be playing games with me, Castiel,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

He walked a few steps further, letting his left hand stroke lazily against the wall. It left a brown wetness on his fingertips.

“Castiel,” he said, a little louder. “Don’t you be playing games with me.”

And then he stopped.

 _Of course he’s playing games_ , he realised. _He wants me to get mad. He wants me to get so mad I give up._

He smiled darkly. _Well, not today, you smug prick._

Dean broke into a sprint. Of course there was a way through this labyrinth. He just had to be smart, use his head—remember not to take anything for granted.

He ran for ten minutes, jumping over upturned branches, dodging nettles, running his hands between the two walls beside him for signs of a crack, an opening—anything.

After another minute or so, however, Dean was out of breath. He stopped—abruptly—and put both hands on his legs. He panted loudly and heavily, his chest tight and his shoulders aching.

There was absolutely nothing in this labyrinth, except for this never-ending walkway. The distant fog taunted him; the still wind jeered. This place was tight and cold and damp, and Dean was very much alone.

He couldn’t, he _wouldn’t_ , let himself feel hopeless. At this point, Dean felt nothing other than pure lividness.

“That BITCH!” he roared, bringing a hard boot against the crack in the wall.

She had known there was nothing down here, and yet she’d let him through with nothing more than a cheery fucking goodbye anyway. God, did Dean feel like an idiot. He’d _known_ Meg was a demon; she had made no attempt at hiding it. He’d known she was no better than those stinking, festering animals that had held him down in the nursery. Yet because of those red lips of hers, her small button nose, that naughty little smile and the curve of her hips, Dean had chosen to ignore any qualms regarding the blackened venality that riled within her. He had been so trusting, so grateful. He’d even asked her to come with him…

Dean bashed a fist against the wall in frustration. He would _not_ make that same mistake again. From now on, he had to assume that every single being he came across in this godforsaken maze was an enemy—if he even met anyone else, he realised dolefully. The rate he was going, he’d be _lucky_ to run into another demon. Although he supposed Meg had been right about one thing: there would be creatures in here that would do _anything_ to stop him from reaching Sammy.

“I won’t let that happen…” Dean found himself saying aloud, his mood changing from anger to one of determination.

“I’ll find you, Sammy. I don’t quite know how I’ll do it yet…” he faltered for a moment, looking at the endless path before him, “but I’ll find a way.”

But this sudden upsurge of willpower was tersely interrupted by a small voice from behind him.

“Uh… hello?”

Dean sprung around.

“Who said that?” He demanded. There was no one there.

“It’s… me…” He heard the voice again. It sounded strained, as if it were pushing against something.

The wall in front of him began to open, and a small, palish man with a beard appeared behind it. The pair looked at each other for a short moment. The shorter man stepped into the light and smiled up at him anxiously.

“Hey…” he said, his voice timid, offering Dean a hand. “I’m—“

But Dean was not interested in what he had to say, as he punched the man straight in the jaw; leaving him a dazed heap on the ground. Cupping the part of his face that had been hit, the man looked up shakily at Dean.

“Ow,” he said, attempting to get up. “That really hurt.”

Dean brought up his fists again.

“Stay back, demon!”

“Chuck?” came another voice from behind the wall. “What’s all this nois—“ and as the second figure appeared from behind it, a woman this time,she looked up from the crumpled figure of the man on the floor, only to gaze upon Dean as if she had just witnessed the Second Coming. She stopped where she stood.

“Oh,” she said, realising—taking a huge gulp from her now dry throat.

No one said anything for what felt like a long while. Dean’s fists were still clenched, ready for another strike, but something about these two made him falter. They seemed fearful of him, sure, but there was a familiarity in their eyes that made it seem like they were somehow _glad_ to see him. It was strange. He could only assume these people were demons like Meg, but even so, something about them was undeniably pure. Their eyes lacked the deviousness that Meg’s had, and their faces, the ugliness of the creatures in the nursery. These people appeared to be something new entirely, but that just made Dean feel even more guarded.

The shorter man finally got up now, and stood next to the woman.

“Dean,” he said, smiling up at him again. “We’ve waited a long time to meet you. This truly is an honour—“ he paused to rub his jaw, “even if you did just punch me in the face.”

Dean didn’t trust this warm welcoming.

“Yeah, well, you’re a demon,” he said defensively, despite the fact he had no idea what was going on or who these people were.

Chuck smiled kindly at him a third time. “I’m not a demon,” he said, “and neither is my wife.”

Dean found himself wanting to back away. If they weren’t demons, if they weren’t like those rotting creatures that had sunk their nails into him and cackled in his ear, then what were they? Was this a trick? Were they something worse?

“What are you, then?” He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

“We are souls,” Chuck answered, “trapped in this land against our will, but free from the shackles that bind so many to Castiel’s control.”

Dean raised his eyebrow.

“Souls?” he said slowly. “So… you’re not demons?”

“No,” the couple smiled.

“And just to make sure: you don’t wanna eat me, or peel off my skin, or touch me inappropriately, or anything like that?”

“No, Dean,” they chuckled. “We don’t.”

“You keep saying my name,” he said now, allowing his voice to sound a little less hostile. “How do you know it?”

“You’re famous.”

Dean smirked,  

“Yeah, that’s what Meg said…”

“Meg?” the woman asked.

“Yeah, uh…” Dean faltered, unsure of how much he should tell them. “The girl that guards the door.”

The two souls looked at each other quickly, for half a second, but it was long enough. Something in that look made him uncomfortable. Did they know her? Before he could ask, the man, Chuck, started talking again.

“Well. She is correct. We can tell you why, if you come with us.” He lowered his voice and edged closer to Dean. “It’s not safe to talk here.”

Dean felt himself wanting to back away. He looked at the man suspiciously.

“What do you mean, it’s not safe? You two are the first people I’ve met since coming through here. This place is just one straight line, there ain’t nothing else.”

Chuck held out his hand, as if sensing the boy’s trepidation.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong. Just because you cant see something doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

Dean hesitated.

“Are we talking about other people or the labyrinth?”

“Both.”

The boy frowned.

“Okay, you lost me.”

Chuck put his hand on the crack in the wall.

“We’ll explain all if you come with us.”

Dean hesitated. He didn’t know if this was a trap or not, but he saw no other option but to go along with them. This was the first bit of change in the labyrinth that wasn’t even a labyrinth at all. Safe or not—change was good. At least he was heading in a direction other than forwards.

“Fine,” he agreed at last. “Lead the way. But if you try anything funny, I’ll do a lot more than just knock you on your ass, understood?”

* * *

Dean found himself stood inside what could only be described as a rounded burrow. The walls and ground looked to be made up of dried mud and soil, yet despite this animalistic simplicity, there was a warm fire crackling pleasantly in the far wall of the room, and shadows danced across the brown mud walls by the candlelight on the mantle. The room was furnished modestly: a table, some chairs, a couple of shelves, a cooking pot, and next to the fire, a wooden bed; its frame worn and rickety. The wall behind Dean began closing slowly once his feet had touched upon this new, soiled ground.

The boy’s green eyes looked around the hidden room with bewilderment.

“What the hell is this place?” he breathed.

“This,” Chuck said proudly, “is our little home in the wall.” He put an arm around his wife. “It’s not much, but it’s a hell of a lot safer than what’s out there.” He paused, and looked at Becky apologetically. “Well, it was, at least.”

He went over to a shelf and picked something up. Whatever it was, it was large, and its contents was covered by a brown rag. Returning to place it on the table, Chuck took off the cloth to reveal an ancient looking hourglass; the sand inside it glittering against the light of the candles. He turned the timer on its head and let the sand seep down through the middle.

“What are you doing?” asked Dean.

“This hourglass will tell us how long we have until the demons come for us,” Chuck replied bluntly. “There is no doubt in my mind the king’s spies have already informed Castiel of our meeting, so it is vital we tell you all you need to know before the sand reaches the bottom.”

Dean puffed out his cheeks. Invisible spies. Homes inside walls. Magical hourglasses... Was anything as it seemed in this place?

“Okay,” he said, nodding towards the couple. “I’m sure this day can’t get any weirder, so whatever you got, lay it on me.”

Chuck breathed out slowly, and pulled a chair out from under the table.

“Right,” he said, sitting down. “Where should I start? I mean, I’ve waited eons for this moment, and now you’re finally here I—“

“Chuck.” Becky put a hand on his shoulder, which immediately seemed to calm him.

“Sorry, Becky. I’m rambling. I do that when I’m nervous.”

He looked up at Dean.

“Well, Meg, the door guard from the beginning… she told you you’re famous, that everybody knows your name.”

Dean gave Becky one of his winning smiles. “I just figured it was because of my unnaturally good looks.”

Ignoring the look on his wife’s face, which had gone bright red, Chuck was looking at Dean with almost pained seriousness.  

“It’s because you are Chosen, Dean. You and your brother both.”

This stopped Dean in his tracks. “You know Sammy?”

“ _Everybody_ knows the story of the baby and the older brother,” Becky said, sitting down on a chair next to Chuck.

Chuck nodded.

“You have a lot of names,” he began. “Dean Winchester is only one of them.”

“Like?”

The shorter man bit his lip in contemplation.

“Well,” he dithered, waving his hand to the seat across from him so Dean would sit too, “the prophecy varies. There’s the Chosen One, of course, and son of the Burned Woman, the good brother… et cetera et cetera.” He stopped, and looked at Dean knowingly. “Although our personal favourite has always been the Righteous Prince.”

The Righteous Prince.

Mary had often told him the story of the two princes; the Righteous and the Damned.

“The Righteous Prince,” said Dean, out loud. “I’ve heard that before.”

“Yes,” nodded Chuck. He looked grave. “Whether you are willing to accept it or not, you have been prepared for this your whole life.”

Dean couldn’t help but wonder.

“Mom…” he whispered. She had known all of it, and for reasons unclear to Dean at that moment, she had felt the only way to protect her children was to keep it all a secret from them, teaching them instead the grim reveal of their destiny through twisted fairytales and arcane nicknames.

“The Mother of Flames,” Chuck nodded absentmindedly, staring at the golden sand at the bottom of the hourglass—half full. He regained composure. “But now is not the time to talk of ghosts.”

He breathed out heavily.

“You are Chosen, Dean, and you need to know why.”

Dean straightened up.

“Then tell me.”

“Eons ago a prophecy was foretold of two brothers that would be born of both one world and another. Their names forged in the depths of the earth, they would be gifted with a power of such magnitude it could bring about the end of a dynasty.” Chuck paused for a moment. “Your brother is taken, yes, but you are the only thing in this wretched place that has the power of defeating Castiel once and for all. You have the power to save your brother, to free the lost souls of the King’s Labyrinth and return them to the mortal world.”

With this, Dean raised two hands to stop Chuck from saying another word.

“Wait a second, wait a second. Me and Sammy are part of a prophecy?”

“You _are_ the prophecy.” Chuck said, almost aggressively.

Becky put a hand over her husband’s clenched one.

“You were always meant to come here, Dean,” she said, her calmness softening the tenseness in the room. “This is your home, after all.”

Chuck began to speak again.

“Although it was never meant to be this way.”

Dean frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“The prophecy… it has been changed. Castiel has your brother. If you fail, Sam will be transformed into a demon, and you…” he paused. “You will be trapped here forever.”

Becky squeezed her husband’s hand again.

“It wasn’t meant to happen this way,” she nodded, “but it still doesn’t mean you won’t be able to kill him.”

“Well,” said Dean, wide-eyed. “That’s reassuring… And killing him is the only way of getting Sam back?”

“Yes,” replied Chuck, “but doing so won’t be easy.”

“I figured as much.”

Becky uttered her husbands name, then—quiet, but panicked. He looked at her, and she edged her chin towards the hourglass. The sand was almost at the bottom.

With this, Chuck sprung out of his chair, half-running to the back of the room, emerging moments later with what could only be described as an aged canvas knapsack about the size of Dean’s boot.

“Time is running out,” Chuck said hurriedly, now back at the table. “Listen closely and listen well; in order to kill Castiel you need to complete four tasks.”

He handed the bag to Dean.

“Here, take this. Inside it are three things. Put them on the table.”

Dean did just that. Ordering the items in succession, he looked at them with confusion. The first item was a glass vial, a few centimetres bigger than his middle finger, and it was empty. He’d used vials like this in Science class, but something told him this vial was going to be filled with something a little more ominous than hydrochloric acid. The second item was a black whistle, ancient looking; the words of an unfamiliar language etched on its side. The third item, and by far the most sinister one, was a dagger. It was sheathed. However, that same, strange language was printed in thin lines down the sides of the worn fabric.

Chuck did not give Dean time to ask any questions. He picked up the vial.

“In this,” he told Dean, his voice hurried, “you will need to store three things: blood of the Purest Soul, ash of the Fiercest Demon, and tears of the Forgotten Sister. Only once these ingredients have been collected will you be able to retrieve the Righteous Weapon and use it to pierce a hole through Castiel’s heart. Only then will you be able to save your brother.”

Dean nodded dumbly.

“Now, the whistle: only blow on it once you have approached the kingdom’s door. Here’s hoping you even make it that far.”

He placed the whistle back into the bag and picked up the dagger, unsheathing it. The cold metal of the blade seemed to shimmer, as if it was awoken. The point curved and beckoned Dean like Sleeping Beauty to the pinprick. It rested delicately in Chuck’s hand; beautiful and deadly—a servant and master both.

“Treat this dagger well,” Chuck said, stroking the top edge fondly, “for if it has the power to do something even our precious king cannot accomplish—and that is to kill.”

“But Meg said you couldn’t die in the labyrinth,” Dean said slowly, eyeing up the blade with newfound anxiety.

“That was before the Righteous Prince signed a contract with the king himself and breached the door of his domain. He welcomes you, though you were not invited. You are playing his game, though you make your own rules. Where you can destroy, he can only maim.” Chuck looked up at Dean darkly. “In this regard, you are even more powerful than the king himself. 

Dean gulped involuntarily. A few hours ago he was just a nowhere boy living in a nowhere town. Now, he was in a land of demons and lost souls, hidden walls and eyeless spies. He was looking his destiny straight in the face—a chance to do something great, something his mother had been preparing him for his whole life.

He had never been more afraid.

Chuck handed Dean the knapsack, and started to lead him across the room to where the orange fire crackled and waved.

“Now, not everyone you’ll meet will be an enemy,” he said. “Some will try and help you, like Becky and I, and you sure as Hell will need friends in this place if you even hope to see the door to Castiel’s kingdom.”

The three of them stopped before the fire. Chuck put a hand on Dean’s shoulder.

“But _don’t_ let your instincts fail you,” he continued. “Some people will be on your side, yes, but others will fane sincerity in order to manipulate you. You alone can decipher who is friend and who is foe." 

Chuck bent down to where the fire was roaring. He put a hand on the flame and Dean gasped, pulling the man’s hand away. Looking at it—it was unharmed.

“Enter through this crawlspace,” Chuck said. “Castiel thought he could con you into walking an endless highway, but, as shown, he underestimates the willfulness of those who do not bow before him.” He paused to give Dean a small smile.

“Your first task is to make your way to the home of Death and collect the blood of the Purest Soul.”

The man opened his mouth again as if to continue, but he was staring at something behind Dean that made the boy turn around. The hourglass on the table—the sand had reached the bottom. Their time had run out.

Chuck grasped Dean’s shoulders.

“You must go _now_ , Dean. Don’t stop. Keep going and you will find your way. The king’s demons will be here any second.”

Dean nodded. He bent down and timidly placed a hand on the thick of the flame. He flinched, though he was not hurt. He looked up at the two souls.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the bag on his left shoulder and letting it rest on the small of his back.

“You’re welco—“ they started, but the wall on the other side of the room began to quiver and quake. The ground started to tremor, and rubble emerged from the cracks, falling heavily to the floor. The demons had found them. Dean began to move through the fire, but something stopped him.

“Wait, aren’t you guys coming with me?”

Becky shook her head.

“No, Dean.”

Dean was flabbergasted. Angry, even.

“ _Why?_ ”

“Sacrifices have to be made for the greater good,” Chuck replied solemnly.

“No. No,” Dean argued. “I can’t let you guys sacrifice yourselves for me, come on!”

The wall on the other side began to open slowly. Frightful screams and moaning were emerging through the cracks. Dean knew that whatever was coming through there would not be able to kill Chuck and Becky, but like Meg had said, there are some fates far worse than death…

“Now, Dean!” The couple were shouting, breaking him from his trance. “Go! Now!”

Dean’s heart was racing. The orange flames blinded him and the sharpness of the ground beneath dug into his palms and knees. He crawled through the tunnel, his chest tight and his ears banging from the commotion behind him. Dean kept crawling until he could no longer see the flames or hear the sounds of screaming. He crawled through the darkened tunnel for a lifetime, until he was aware of nothing else but the sounds of his own, terrified breaths.


	7. Knocking on Death's Door

Dean had been crawling for what felt like hours. His jeans were dyed brown by the mud and his palms were bleeding from the sharp stones and splinters laced on the tunnel floor. The smell of soil and rot was overpowering and Dean couldn’t help but gag.

The screaming of his fallen friends had long ago faded within the tunnel walls, but he still could not get the piercing sound out of his head. The stillness of the tunnel only seemed to make the soundless screams louder, until they were so loud he had to hold his hands to his ears and shut his eyes while his body winced and cowered.

“Stop. _Stop_ ,” he begged, pleading to the voices inside his head.

Maybe he was going crazy.

 _No, you’re just guilty_ , came another voice from inside his head. It was his father’s.

Now he was definitely going crazy.

Dean shook his head. No, he couldn’t be, he just… he couldn’t _believe_ Chuck and Becky had been willing to sacrifice themselves for _him_ —someone they didn’t even know. He bit his lip. How could he have been so cocky as to believe completing this labyrinth was going to be easy? He’d been there for less than an hour and already people had been lost.

What would become of them, he wondered. Prison? Torture? Dean did not know Castiel’s favoured punishment for treason, but he could only bet it was something truly despicable. He felt sick again; his stomach tightened and he gagged once more. Maybe it wasn’t the smell, after all. 

Dean continued to crawl, ignoring the pain in his hands and knees and the jeering whispers his father’s voice tormented him with. He continued in the dark for a long while until the air he breathed became thinner. The smell of rot and mud slowly dissipated until light began streaming into the tunnel and left a warm, dry heat on his face. Dean crawled further to where the light was thickest, and began tearing away at the gap in the soil. After some struggling, the boy managed to drag himself out of the hole and breathed in slowly, relishing in the odourless air.

Dean got to his feet and rubbed himself down; his clothes were filthy. He paused, fingering the contents of his bag to check everything was still there. Once he was satisfied, he peered around, taking in his surroundings.

He was in another part of the labyrinth, that much was certain. Gone were the dried, arenose walls that went on for miles, and the brown sky that seemed as murky as swamp water. The walls had been replaced by tall green hedges, meticulously pruned, and the ground was laid with dozens of black and white floor tiles. The sky was a bright blue and the air cool and fresh. It was like something straight out of a fairytale, Dean thought, only fairytales weren’t so rife with misery.

Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming from behind a corner. The voices were muffled, so Dean walked slowly to one of the hedges and peered around. 

There must have been about two dozen people stood in the clearing. They stood motionless in a single line behind each other with their heads bowed and their wrists and ankles shackled. Dean didn’t know how long the line of people went, because the last person he could see disappeared behind a corner. These people—no— _prisoners_ were silent. It was their guards who were making the noise. Even from where Dean was standing, he knew the beings he was staring at, with their black garbs and leashed whips, were demons.

He tore his eyes away from the clearing to gaze at something so big and so magnificent he very nearly gasped at the sight. It was a huge, wide building with white pillars on all sides. They were so tall, they could have gone on for a lifetime. As beautiful as this place was, Dean knew it was dangerous. Demons had already caught his friends, imagine what they would do if they found him? Dean spotted another clearing to his left. It seemed deserted, and the hedge would serve as plenty of coverage. If only he could sneak past these demons and—

“What the hell you doin’ out of line, eh?” came a voice suddenly from behind him, grabbing his arm. He turned around frightfully, and found himself staring into a pair of vicious, black eyes.

Dean knew he was screwed. The demon would know who he was and he would be captured, or worse.

“G-get off me,” he stammered, trying to get a hand into his bag. “I just—“

“I don’t want no bleedin’ excuses,” the demon snarled, shoving him forwards. “I got no patience for deserters. Get back in line or it’s the Pool for you!”

Dean had no idea what the demon was talking about. He was so sure he had been caught, but it seemed like the demon didn’t even know who he was. The demon led him to the line of people and pushed him roughly behind a woman, a few spaces from the front. Dean kept a firm grasp on the fold of his knapsack where the point of his dagger stuck out furthest, but another demon grabbed his wrists and set them shut with metal cuffs. His ankles were also bound.

The demon from before began pacing down the line; his face painted a dirtied snarl as he looked toward the prisoners.

“Listen, you soon-to-be maggots!” he yelled, making his voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Today’s the day you come face-to-face with Death.”

 _Death?_ questioned Dean. He looked towards the huge building in front of him and stifled a gulp. Had he reached the home of Death, only to be captured and bound in chains?

The demon continued.

“This is a momentous day for you all, the day o’ your Turnin’. You’ve lasted longer than most.”

He paused to laugh at his captives.

“Ain’t nothing to fear…” he patronised. “Just a simple trial, is all. You will wait your turn until my associate calls on you, and then you will answer for your crimes in Death’s courtroom. Once the Turnin’ has occurred, you will make your way to the city where you will join the king’s army.”

He finished, looking satisfied.

“Any questions?”

The crowd said nothing. Dean’s teeth were gritted together as he stared fixedly at the knapsack rested on his thigh. None of the demons had questioned it—yet. Dean cursed himself for not using the dagger when he’d had the chance, but it couldn’t be helped now. Instead he simply waited for the demon to bark more orders.

The guard began pacing back to the front of the line, and even though Dean’s eyes were lowered, he could feel the eyes of the demons on the back of his neck—sharp, maleficent eyes, taking him in and relishing in his cowering. 

“Some o’ you…” the demon guard murmured, looking at the line of people with wanton fondness. “I see your faces. You think you don’t belong ‘ere, that you’re just a bunch of innocent little souls who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Well, you’re not!” he concluded harshly, spraying spit from his rotting gums. “You did somethin’ to prove you’re just like _everythin’_ else in this cuntin’ place: tainted and festerin’… rottin’ from the inside out…”

He paused beside the snivelling prisoner at the front of the line.

“Oh, don’t look so frightened!” He teased, grabbing at the man’s face roughly. “We were in your places once, too, ya know. All demons were! Me pal Dimitri here,” he said, nodding his head towards a demon stood on higher ground, “he was Turned for rapin’ the pretty little soul who’d been kind enough to shelter him from the nasty demons he’d been runnin’ from.”

Dimitri sneered.

“And me,” the guard continued, “well, let’s just say I got a hunger that can’t be sated by… traditional means…”

He looked over at Dimitri and the pair chuckled darkly. Dean did not even want to imagine what that had meant.

The guard began pacing again.

“Now, don’t be too put off by the shackles. We’ve had runaways before, and the results weren’t pretty. Stand single file and follow the person in front." 

“And don’t worry…” he finished darkly, “you won’t have to wait too long for your turn… the screamin’ don’t last long.”

* * *

As another Tainted was beckoned through the door to Death’s courtroom, the line of souls shifted. Dean shuffled, struggling against the weight of the shackles around his ankles. Unable to lift his feet off the ground, his foot caught between a wilted plant that seemed to grab on to him with its bristles. Dean couldn’t balance himself, and so buckled, and fell, into the woman in front of him.

“Watch it!” she snapped, turning around angrily.

“Cool it, I tripped!” he said defensively, his hands raised. The woman’s green eyes immediately lightened, however, as she took in the boy’s form. She looked him up and down, eyeing him hungrily, as if she hadn’t had a good meal in weeks.

“Mm,” she said now, her anger forgotten. “Fresh meat.”

She looked to be only a few years older than Dean, but was a fair few inches taller. She had mousey brown hair and her pink lips shimmered as she wet them softly with the tip of her tongue. By her accent Dean assumed she was British, which was strange to think about, considering they were in a place so far away from where she must have once lived.

“My name’s Bela,” she said to Dean, smirking down at him. She lifted a shackled hand to stroke his cheek lazily.

“What’s a little angel like you doing in a place like this?”

Dean pushed her hand away and scowled.

“None of your business. And I ain’t no angel."

“Oh,” Bela said, chuckling darkly, “I like ‘em feisty.”

She looked as if she planned to say something else demeaning, but her cool façade suddenly eroded as they heard the beginnings of tortured screams coming from behind the iron door. Her smirk disappeared, and her brows tightened. Once the screaming started, it didn’t stop.

“What’s happening in there?” Dean asked, his stomach knotting.

Bela looked back at him now, and as quickly as her lips had trembled and her eyes had widened in fear, she was smirking again. If she had been frightened before, she made damn sure she didn’t seem it now.

“He’s been a bad, bad boy, and he’s gone to meet his maker.”

A new wave of screaming begun, and from behind the door, Dean could swear he could hear the man begging Death to take his life.

“Mm,” pondered Bela. “He must have done something _really_ naughty to be screaming like that.”

“What do you think he did?”

Bela shrugged carelessly,

“It’s pointless trying to understand the motives of the evil and the insane.”

She paused, now, gazing at Dean as if she were trying to hypnotise him. If he had been on the surface, Dean would have fallen under her spell in the blink of an eye. But not here. There was too much at stake to lose his head over a pretty girl.

“So which one are you, then?” asked Dean, breaking the silence. “Evil or insane?”

Bela replied with a humourless laugh.

“Oh. I’m neither.” Then, with mock contrition: “I’m just a lowly thief… stealing and manipulating to get what I want.”

“It’s been a fun ride,” she shrugged, “but judging from these shackles around my wrists and ankles, I think it’s safe to say that crime _really_ doesn’t pay.”

She laughed again, though it was not a pleasant sound to hear. It pained him, as if each guffaw was a knife to his gut.

“So why’d you do it?” he found himself asking. “You knew you were gonna get caught, and now you’ve thrown away your entire freedom. And for what?”

With that, Bela’s dark smile faded into a purse line, and the mischievous glitter in her eyes dulled to grey. She wasn’t laughing anymore. Edging herself closer to Dean, she spoke to him through gritted teeth.

“You’re either in denial or _stupid_ to think I had any freedom to throw away in the first place.”

“No one’s free here,” she taunted. “I may be a soul, but what freedom have I ever had compared to _them_?” She pointed her head towards the demon guards at the door. Dean looked at them quickly, half expecting them to have heard her. Regardless, they stood motionless and looked ahead; their black eyes bottomless and unblinking.

“They serve Castiel,” Dean said slowly, looking back at Bela.

“We _all_ serve the king. Demon or not.” Bela growled. “At least the demons in the city have a bit of _fun_ now and again. What do us souls have? We live in secret, fear… spending our days running and hiding from the things that wish to tear our pure little bodies to shreds. Tell me, what kind of freedom is that?”

She crossed her arms, as best she could, considering her wrists were bound.

“I’m tired of being prey,” she sulked. “At this point, I’m _glad_ to finally become the hunter.” 

The unapologetic honesty of her words shook Dean, and he began to understand the motives of the people standing in line with him. He didn’t think any of them were evil or insane, like Bela had said. They were just people who had grown so damn weary of their prison that their only hope of escape was to become the very things that had locked them in their cells in the first place. These people weren’t evil, or insane, he realised: they were just tired.

Even so, Dean couldn’t help but feel angry at Bela and the others for giving up. He scoffed. Whether or not she was a coward, she had still run away.

“You’re lying,” he said coldly. “You’re scared, and you know it. And you know that if Castiel were to be defeated you’ve damned your chances of ever going home.”

“ _Bah_ ,” huffed Bela, waving a shackled hand dismissively. “You don’t honestly believe in that rubbish, do you?”

Her words were cold, and thick with contempt.

“No great prince is coming for us,” she continued. “No one will ever defeat the king, and for your sake I’d suggest you stopped thinking like that. You’re about to become a demon, same as I, same as everyone else in this bloody line. It doesn’t matter what happens to him, _none_ of us are getting out now.”

Dean so badly wanted to tell her how wrong she was. That she was talking to the Righteous Prince himself, the prince that would put a blade through the Demon King’s heart and save every soul who had held on. He so badly wanted to tell her, but even after telling _himself_ , her words were still harrowing.

Before he could think of a reply, the guard in front of Bela stood to attention.

“Next Tainted!” he barked, the mighty doors beckoning her as they opened.

Bela looked at Dean. Her eyes weren’t cold, or leering, evil, or insane. They were wide and terrified—and unmistakably human. He knew at once the petty speech she had just heckled left her no comfort now.

“Looks like I’m up,” she whispered. She gave him a sad smile and looked away.

“I’ll see you in the city, dreamer.”

The demons undid her shackles. She turned away from Dean and walked confidently through the door. As it began to close behind her, Dean secretly hoped she would turn around one last time, if only so he could smile back, but she didn’t.

After the doors had closed, he tried to picture Bela’s fate, and what would become of her. But his thoughts were quickly interrupted by the sounds of screaming.

* * *

“Next Tainted!” the demon named Dimitri called, waving his hand toward the mighty iron door. Dean swallowed, though he found his throat was dry. The sound of Bela’s agonised screams were still fresh in his mind, playing in his head over and over like a broken record. He didn’t even want to imagine what had happened to her in there… or, worse still: what she had become. As he passed the two guards, he let himself gaze upon the features of the demon who had called on him.

Dimitri had all the characteristics of a human being: blood, flesh, skin, hair, but where a person’s skin might flush red with colour, Dimitri’s was greyed like a corpse, and the area beneath his eyes were veined and purpled. Most of all, though, Dean could not help but stare at the blackness of his eyes. Meg had told him that demons could change the colour whenever they pleased, but it seemed that most, if not all the demons he had met so far had been resolute in keeping theirs black, as if they wanted to appear as far from human as possible. Their blackened eyes were like a brand; a symbol of their servitude to the king. Dean couldn’t help but think of Bela when he looked at them. He wondered, if he ever saw her again, if she would choose to have her eyes black, too.

The demon guards opened the iron doors, and Dean held his breath, staring at his feet intently as they undid the binds around his wrists and ankles. He was terrified that if they were to catch his eye they would see right through him and know he was an impostor. There were four demons, maybe more, outside the courtroom. But even with his dagger, Dean doubted he could best a fight against them.

Despite his concern, the demons did not even look at him. After removing his shackles they simply returned to their posts and stared ahead. They closed the door behind him without a word, and Dean faltered as he heard the solid bang of meeting iron. He had done it, he thought. He had made his way to the home of Death.

 _But that was the easy part_ , he regarded bitterly. _Now the real work begins._

He began to walk down a wide corridor, his brown boots tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. The walls were black and decorated with dozens of paintings on each side. There were beautiful women painted like the early renaissance and the pre-raphaelites, their lips red and their hair long and thick and golden. But in these paintings these women were drawn in anguish; their skin flayed and their red lips wide in pain and terror. In other paintings, winged beasts as tall as trees dangled matted body parts from their phantom mouths. Each painting was a depiction of war and savagery, rape and pillage, evil and insanity. And everywhere, there were eyes; thousands of eyes as black as night. Dean tore his own eyes away and stared hard at his shoes as he walked. Dean had never prayed to a God before, but even _he_ knew these paintings were unholy. He stroked the outline of his dagger, letting the point dig lightly into his fingertip.

 _You’re okay_ , he told himself, his heart beating so loud and so fast it was difficult to breathe.

 _You’re okay_ , he said again, as he found himself facing another door with a lone demon stood in front of it.

“Go in, Tainted,” the demon said, giving way.

Dean walked in, and found himself stood in a wide circular arena: he had made it to Death’s courtroom. Like the corridor, the walls were also painted black, but the ceiling was so high it was as if it had no roof at all, and he was just staring up at a starless night. The black and yellow marble floor was laid out in an intricate geometric design, and in the middle of the floor was a small circled platform, where, Dean presumed, he was to stand upon and await judgement.

Directly in front of him was the black bench. It was at least ten feet tall and at the very top sat his judge and executioner: Death. Dean dared himself to look up. 

The man who sat above him was thin, and his face gaunt. His long, needle-like arms were rested delicately on the bench face, and his pale complexion clashed against the darkness of the room. Dean wondered if Death’s eyes were black, too, but looking upon them now he saw that the man’s eyes were closed, as if he were sleeping. Dean looked elsewhere. Far below Death, sat to his left, was a girl Dean instantly recognised and yet had never seen before. Her hair was the same colour as Death’s, and her skin just as pale, but in her face was a kindness and a purity so transient it changed the atmosphere of the entire room. Dean’s heartbeat lessened and he immediately didn’t feel so afraid.  

Death began to speak now. His voice shook the room with its grandeur, and yet it still held an air of delicacy and quiet.

“My name is Death,” he addressed Dean slowly, his eyes still closed. ‘You are here, not to die, but to be reborn… transformed into something more than what you are.”

He continued ominously.

“Your king welcomes you, but the question still remains: what have you done to taint your soul forever?”

He ushered Dean with a single finger.

“Step on to the circle, Tainted. Let us see you for what you have become.”

Dean wearily made his way to the stand, his hand clutching the outline of the dagger head. As soon as he stood on the circle, Death opened his eyes, and Dean had to stop himself from gasping—the man’s eyes were completely white.

“You see, Tainted,” Death started conversationally. “I am blind, but I still see better than most.” He paused to lean forward over the desk, the neutrality in his expression beginning to lessen.

“Well, are you stood on the circle?” He asked the boy.

“Y-yes,” Dean answered reluctantly.

“I—my eyes,” Death said, blinking. “They do not—I cannot,” He looked down towards the woman. “Tessa? What do you see?”

“I see a boy who is not of this place, Father,” she said, looking at Dean intently. Her expression was unreadable.

“Is that so?” Death challenged. He leant back in his chair. “Well, today just got a _lot_ more interesting.”

The playfulness in his voice disappeared however, as he looked down over the bench at the boy who must have seemed so small in comparison.

“Who are you?” Death asked slowly.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” the boy answered, sounding braver than he felt. He willed his hands not to start shaking.

Death smiled at himself, realising.

“Dean… Winchester…” he said back to him slowly, letting the name drawl out on his tongue. “The Righteous Prince… here, in my courtroom. Imagine my surprise.”

The secret was out. This man, creature, whatever he was, must undoubtedly have been well versed in the Tale of the Two Brothers. There was no point in being scared, Dean thought. He had made it this far; there was no backing out now.

“You know who I am, Death,” Dean said loudly, his voice carrying to the corners of the great room. The words echoed back to him and he sounded older, stronger. “And you know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” Death nodded. “You’re here for my daughter.”

With this, the woman looked up.

“Father?” She sounded unnerved.

“Yes, sweet Tessa,” Death said garrulously, ignoring her tone of voice. “You’ve heard the prophecy, haven’t you? He needs your blood to kill the king.”

Dean didn’t want to scare her. That was the last thing he wanted. He shook his head avidly, waving his hands in protest.

“It’s just a bit of blood, Death,” he assured. “A little prick of your daughter’s finger and I’ll be on my way. No one else needs to bleed for this.”

Death chuckled, as if Dean had just told an amusing joke.

“Alas, if only that were true.”

He stared, now, into Dean’s eyes with such intensity, the boy had to stop himself from recoiling.  

“No, Dean,” continued Death, shaking his head firmly. “You need a lot more blood than that.”

Dean bit his lip.

“He has my brother,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “I _have_ to do this, surely you can understand that?”

Death said nothing to this, so Dean continued.

“Look, I know you serve Castiel, but—”

With this, Death held up a hand to stop him. His fingers were long and thin and almost skeletal-looking.

“Serve Castiel?” He sounded insulted. “He is but a child. I was here long before he bound Lucifer and fashioned himself a little toy crown.”

Death leaned closer over the black bench.

“I’ve been here since the humble beginning, you see. I may have demons outside my door, and I may send my creations to the king’s city, but I assure you: I am my own master. I serve no one." 

“Then you have no reason to protect him,” Dean tried, looking up at him pleadingly. “I won’t hurt your daughter.” He turned to look at the girl. “Tessa, I won’t hurt you. I just need one drop of blood, that’s all.”

“That’s _all_?”

Death laughed incredulously; the harsh guffaws shaking the floor. Dean regained his balance, and stared, wide-eyed, at Death, who was smiling down at him coldly.

“Why are you being like this?” Dean asked tiredly, “I’m trying to save people.”

“Person,” Death corrected. “Not people.”

Dean blinked.

“By your own selfishness,” Death persisted, “you wished your own brother away, and now you’ve come to this labyrinth to save him and him alone. You say you are going to save these souls, but that is just out of convenience. The truth is, you could not give less of a damn about any of them. If you did, you would have saved Chuck and Becky, and you would have killed the demons outside my door before I took Bela’s purity and turned her into something to stick your knife in.”

He paused, but only to give the boy another condescending smile.

“Don’t play yourself off as a hero, Dean. I see better than most, remember?”

Dean was livid.

How _dare_ he talk about Chuck and Becky. How dare he even mention their names. And Bela. How could he possibly have saved her?

“Don’t talk to me about Chuck and Becky,” Dean said, almost threateningly. “You have _no_ idea what happened. And Bela. What was I supposed to do? I was outnumbered five-to-one!”

Death did not say anything to this, and only peered over at Dean with an agonising smugness. It was pointless trying to defend himself against him, because a niggliing voice inside Dean’s head was telling him that Death was right. He _could_ have saved Chuck and Becky, and he could have saved Bela. He was the Righteous fucking Prince, wasn’t he? _He_ had the dagger. _He_ had the power… so why hadn’t he used it yet?

Dean sighed, and shook his head.

“I’ve made mistakes,” he confessed, “I know. But your daughter’s blood can help me fix _everything_ I screwed up.”

He looked into the white eyes of Death.

“I didn’t know about the other souls when I got here, but now I do—and I _want_ to help them. I’m going to. Look at me and say I’m lying about this.”

Death looked into him a short while.

“Oh, I believe you, Dean,” He said with cheer, the atmosphere immediately changed. “You _are_ the Righteous Prince, after all.”

Dean started to smile in gratitude.

“But I still can’t let you take my daughter’s blood,” Death finished.

That was it. The boy couldn’t hide his anger or frustration anymore. He grabbed the dagger from his bag and raised it threateningly at the creature.

“I’m _done_ trying to reason with you. I’m done trying to play nice. Don’t you see how much bigger this is than your fucking feelings? Be reasonable!”

Death laughed.

“Be… reasonable…” he repeated slowly. “Hm.”

Then, Death stood up from the bench and his body was so tall he almost disappeared through the ceiling. His voice darkened and shook the floor.

“You come into _my_ home,” he bellowed, his clawed hands digging into the surface of the bench, “demand the blood of _my_ daughter, and you think I’d just _let_ you?”

He cleared his throat, running a hand through his dark hair. He sat down again, immediately calmed.

“This isn’t about fixing wrongs or fulfilling destinies, or my “feelings””, the man added, making quotation marks with his fingers. “No. This is about manners, and how you have none.”

“Manners.” Dean said back to him, his tone devoid of emotion. “You’re gonna damn the existence of my brother and every soul here because I don’t have fucking _manners_?”

“Language, Dean. It isn’t polite.”

“Oh, fuck you and your politeness!” screamed Dean. He had lost it. “Here I was thinking Castiel was the biggest dick around here when you’re ten times worse!”

Death was not fazed by this outbreak.

“Ten times worse, am I?” he challenged. “If you think that, you obviously have not been to the place Castiel sends the people he wishes to… forget about. The Pool of the Lost, they call it. Go there and tell me I’m worse, won’t you?”

Dean shook his head,

“I don’t have time for this.”

“You do,” Death argued. “You just have no patience.”

It was no use trying to argue with Death. He was too stubborn to listen to reason. But the girl—she had remained quiet throughout their confrontation. Dean turned to her now.

“Tessa. You understand why I gotta do this, right? I’m not here to hurt you. If you help me, I promise, I’ll kill Castiel and you’ll be free. You’ll _all_ be free. Isn’t that what you want?”

Tessa looked like she was about to speak, but her voice was silenced by her father’s.

“Don’t talk of things you don’t understand,” Death said simply.

Dean ignored him.

“You’re not a demon,” he addressed Tessa again. “You can still go home.”

Tessa was silent.

“Don’t talk of things she doesn’t understand,” said Death quietly after a few moments. His voice… it sounded almost sad.

But Dean did not have time to question him.

“Listen, Tessa,” he said, approaching the side bench slowly where the steps began. “We can help each other.”

“Put one foot on that step and I will rip your body into a thousand pieces,” came Death’s calm voice. The boy ignored him.

“ _Dean_ ,” came Death once more. “This is your last chance. Stay away from my daughter. 

“I’m sorry, Death,” replied Dean, placing a hard boot on the wooden step. “I just can’t do that.”

And with that, the mighty room was shook by a terrifying shriek that immobilised Dean to where he stood. His ears rang so painfully Dean could do nothing except claw at them pathetically and groan as his body was thrown to the floor.

A second passed, and Dean willed himself to get up. The black bench was splitting before him, its wooden splinters cracking and loosening as its pillars began to tumble to the ground, like bodies crashing into rocks.

Dean backed himself into a corner. The bench lay in ruin upon the marble floor, the wood and dust resembling Dean’s house after it had burnt to a crisp and taken his mother with it. Dean stared at the clearing; Death and Tessa were nowhere to be found. Had he failed his task already?

But then the wood began to move.

It was merely a ripple at first, like a pebble landing in water. Then the debris began to shake and submerge in on itself, giving way to what was trapped beneath. Then Dean saw it. 

Death rose from the ruin; reborn, transformed. Two black wings, torn and ugly, spread themselves from behind Death’s back. His body was distorted, his neck disjointed. The bones in his hands cracked and rippled, and his nails gave way to claws that seemed to tear themselves through the skin. Death screamed as blood and teeth sprayed from his mouth, and inch-long incisors grew in their place. Dean could do nothing but watch as the man rebirthed himself into the creature Dean had seen in the paintings outside the courtroom; their bodies as tall as trees, their mouths stained, and their claws dripping in the blood of their prey. 

“YOU—WILL—NOT—HAVE—MY— _DAUGHTER_!” came Death’s hallowed shriek, though it was not the same voice he’d had before. It was so deep, so loud... its very echo tremoured the room, and the walls began to crack.

Dean stared into the white eyes of the abomination, the only thing he could familiarise, and readied his dagger.


	8. Knights and Fools

The king sat on his throne, weary-eyed. The great room was deserted save for his servant Crowley and a couple of guards stood solemnly by the door.

The baby had cried for _hours_. None of the demons had had a fathom of sense as to what to do with him. Castiel supposed at least _some_ of these creatures must have been parents when they were mortal, and to a lesser degree, parents who had loved and nurtured their children. But now, after a millennia of savagery, these demons had gladly abandoned whatever humanity they had once had. Sam was an oddity; something all together alien and unknown, but he also acted as a painful reminder to the vile creatures of Castiel’s world. His chubby fingers, his big green eyes, his beating heart… all were glimpses into the demons’ own pasts. He was something they had all been once, something they had had of their own, something they had loved and nurtured… something they had lost, and something they would never have again. Sam had reminded the demons of their own forsaken humanity, and they had hated him for it.

Castiel, his head pounding, had sent them away once realising this, and the baby had finally settled once the king had picked him up and begun rocking him back and forth. It was a perverse act, completely undignified, but now the child had quietened and was blinking up at Castiel with its big green eyes.

“You’re an annoying little creature, aren’t you?” Castiel said in a cooing voice, still rocking the baby gently. “Why humans choose to have you is beyond me.” He stuck his tongue out at Sam and the baby giggled.

“But it doesn’t really matter,” he continued, a smile on his face. “You won’t be a baby for much longer. You’ll be a demon, and you’ll be mine.”

The child gurgled and grabbed a hold of Castiel’s finger. He grimaced.

“Crowley,” he said, looking up. “Get my crystal.”

His servant stood to attention, walking briskly to the side of the room where the ball was rested upon a delicate glass stand.

“Right away, sire,” he said, picking it up with ease. “Do you wish to watch the boy?”

“No,” dismissed Castiel, “the boy can wait. Instead,” he started to smile darkly, “I wish to check on our guests.”

Crowley grinned too, handing the crystal over to the king, who took it with his free hand.

“Alastair has arrived at the castle too, I presume?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” nodded Crowley avidly. “Early, in fact.”

The king chuckled. “No surprise there. We all know how dedicated he is to his duties…”

The king and his servant shared a short laugh, but stopped abruptly when Sam let out a whine.

“Shh, shh,” murmured Castiel, swaying the baby tenderly. Sam settled and closed his eyes.

“I never took you as the paternal type, sire,” griped Crowley, an edge of mocking to his voice.

Castiel ignored him.

“Show me Alastair,” he instead directed to the crystal, cupping it in his palm.

Immediately, the glass inside the ball began to fog. Smoke rallied itself within the confines; its ashy waves circling like a whirlpool. It cleared after a few moments, and in the remnants behind the glass, like a curtain unveiling, there revealed the tortured faces of Chuck and Becky.

They were both tied down to wooden stretchers, their mouths gagged and their eyes pried open by metal speculums. The demon Alastair stood over them. He was looking down fondly at the contraption in which his victims lay. He had built it himself, many years ago, and like a carpenter, Alastair had built this contraption to last.

Castiel watched the demon intently. Alastair had worked for the king as his torturer for a millennia. You see, Alastair _loved_ pain. To him, torture was an art; something only the gifted few could ever hope to perfect. There was a certain temperament needed, a particular slight of hand. Alastair had spent many decades ameliorating his techniques, but it was known across the realm that Alastair had still not created his masterpiece. He had tortured countless souls and demons throughout the ages; their broken yet breathing bodies discarded across the realm like forgotten dolls. To Alastair, they were all failures. He was forever searching for that perfect being to stick his tools in to, to watch as the blood poured from their wounds like rainwater… to let their beautiful screams pierce his eardrums until they rang eternally.

Yes. Torture was an art, and Alastair was close to becoming a master.

Chuck and Becky had already been worked on by the demon for close to an hour. Their pale skin had been dyed red with blood, making it impossible for Castiel to work out which parts of their body hadn’t already been maimed. Becky convulsed and began choking on her own blood as Alastair slashed at her neck with a scalpel. Chuck was screaming over to his wife; her eyes had rolled to the back of her head and she was motionless. If the world had been kind, Becky would have died right then and there… But the world was not kind. Not Castiel’s.

The king held the crystal closer to his face, transfixed as he watched the demon pierce Chuck’s flesh and stick his finger deep into the wound.

“It’s strange…” Castiel began, unable to tear his eyes away. “We were friends for so long, but… looking at him now… I feel nothing.”

Chuck writhed and screamed as Alastair used a retractor to open up the wound even more, until at last it was gaping and the shiny white of bone was visible. The more Chuck struggled, the more the speculums around his eyes teared at the skin and made the tissue bulge, until at last hot thick blood began to form and fall from the man’s eyes like tears. Alastair stopped his cutting for a moment—mesmerised. He stared for a long while, and then, with the hands of an artist, he wiped the tears away. But then the moment passed. Alastair’s curiosity faded, and he continued cutting.

“I was good to him,” said Castiel, his voice stricken. “All those years ago… I could have turned my back and had him and Becky thrown to the Pool, but I didn’t. I was merciful. Yet when the prince came… _that_ is how he repays me?”

Crowley shrugged. He seemed unsympathetic.

“That’s what you get for trusting a half-soul, I suppose. Plus, he thinks the prophecy will come true.”

“I know he does,” Castiel snapped, “that’s why I had him banished in the first place!”

Crowley bowed his head; he knew he had spoken out of turn. But the king was aware of the truth behind his apathy.

“It’s all right,” Castiel settled. “Dean came here because I allowed it. Nothing is beyond my control. I’ve changed the fate of this realm once, I can do it again.”

Crowley brightened. “And that’s why I serve you so loyally, sire.”

Castiel again looked into the crystal, the image of Alastair and his tools reflecting in his blue eyes.

“I will have Alastair work on them a while longer,” he declared, “see if he can get any information. But Chuck is a stubborn man—always has been. And Becky loves him. I doubt they’d ever talk.”

“Still, it doesn’t hurt in trying…” his voiced trailed off. “Well,” he pondered, “for Chuck and Becky it will, but…”

Crowley chuckled.

“Wonderful, sire. And what should we do with them after Alastair is finished?”

Castiel breathed out slowly, though he already knew what he was going to say.

“Something I should have done long ago,” he answered finally.

The servant’s black eyes darkened. 

“I will make the arrangements.”

* * *

Dean raised his dagger hand so it was pointed directly at the space between Death’s eyes. The creature panted heavily, its breathing coarse and animalistic. Dean stared through it and wondered if the monstrosity could even recognise him. After a moment, Dean lunged at it, the dagger flailing wildly. Death screamed and flapped its wings, and the room shook as the beast leaped from the ground and used its claws to balance itself from the upper wall of the crumbling courtroom.

Dean circled it, never leaving Death’s white stare. Was there anything of the man he had talked to left in that feral gaze? Dean surely doubted it. Death screeched once more as it flapped its wings and readied itself to charge. Dean lunged to the left as the creature tore itself from its perch and made a dive towards him. He managed to avoid the brunt of the attack, but Death had still managed to catch the small of his back with its claw, leaving a deep cut that oozed hot blood. Dean swore but quickly regained his composure. Death was on ground level again, so he knew this would be one of the only chances he had to attack.

“Come here, I dare ya,” he taunted, waving the dagger in front of him in quick lashes.

And then he heard a woman’s voice.

“Go for the eyes!” Tessa screamed, and before he could even think about it, Dean lunged towards the beast, knocking its mighty form over as he grabbed its face and plunged the dagger right into one of its mighty white eyes. The creature screamed, threw the boy off, and began to claw at its face with nails so sharp the skin began to tear away. Dean tried to get up, his head banged and his eyes blurred, but Death no longer noticed him. The creature had gone insane; screaming and clawing and tearing off its own face, until at last it was nothing more than blood and bone. Death let out a final moan before it collapsed in a heap on the ground.

Dean got to his feet unsteadily. He picked up the dagger with a shaking hand and walked slowly towards the broken creature. He stared at it, but now even its eyes were no longer familiar—just two bloody holes against a greying skull. He looked to the small figure of Tessa, who bent down next to it. She stroked its mutilated face with careful tenderness.

“Is it over?” he asked her.

She ignored him, still stroking the face of the beast. It was a private moment, and even though he had not killed Death willingly, he still couldn’t help but feel guilty for taking Tessa’s father away.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Tessa,” he said quietly, looking down at his feet.

“Why are you sorry?” she replied then, smiling. “He isn’t.”

Before he could ask her what she meant, Tessa’s smile twisted into a grimace. She groaned in pain and doubled over, cupping at her stomach.

“Tessa—” Dean cried, falling to her side and grabbing her by her shoulders. Tessa’s eyes opened and stared through Dean like a void. The boy gasped and jumped to his feet, horrified at the sight: Tessa’s eyes had turned completely white.

“What’s happening to you?” he asked fearfully, readying his dagger again, but Tessa ignored him as she rose slowly to her feet, her head bowed. Dean tightened his grip on the knife, the blood of Tessa’s father still dripping from the tip.

She looked at him now, with her milk-coloured eyes. Dean backed away slowly, ready to rip them out if he had to. But instead of attacking, Tessa gave him a kind smile.

“Do not be afraid, Dean,” she said, her voice gentle but resolute.

“Can you see me?” he found himself asking, unable to tear his gaze away from hers.

Tessa smiled. “Yes,” she started cryptically. “I can see the most important part of you."

“And… what’s that now?” Dean asked dumbly.

Tessa laughed. “Your soul, of course.”

Dean blinked. Tessa sensed his bafflement.

“I have taken my father’s place,” she explained. “He has given me his eyes, so now I am to stand at the bench and judge the Tainted for their crimes, as he did.”

“He gave you his eyes?” Dean questioned. “How? How is that possible?”

“I am the first and last to have been born of this world—I am true purity. Death created me, and now that he is gone, I become him.”

She smiled, even though she knew her words were strange.

“Now,” she continued, unwilling to waste time. “Take out that vial and pierce my finger.”

Dean rummaged in his bag shakily and took out the flask. Holding it in his palm, he half expected it to be cracked, but throughout his fight with Death it had remained whole and unbroken. Slowly, he approached Tessa, who held out a soft white finger for him to prick. He did so, carefully. A drop of blood began to form out of the cut; Dean squeezed it a little and let the red liquid drip slowly down the inside of the tube.

The blood looked unremarkable as Dean placed the cork back on the vial. He couldn’t help but wonder how just one drop could be as powerful as Chuck had said it would be.

As Dean opened his mouth to thank Tessa, the door of the courtroom began to rumble as it was forced open. Dean gulped as he was met by the faces of the demon who had placed him in shackles, and his dead-faced friend. The two demons were speechless as they took in the sight of the winged beast dead and matted on the ground, and the boy with the bloodied dagger who was standing over it.

“You…” the demon began. “You killed Death!”

He dared himself to take a step closer, staring at Dean as if he recognised him but could not place from where. And then it dawned on him.

“It’s you. The boy from the prophecy.”

The fear and awe in the demon’s voice oozed right through him, proving that Dean no longer had to fear this world as much as he had done. At his feet was the tattered remains of a mighty beast, slain by his hand. Demons weren’t his foe, he realised; they were his prey.

“Yes,” Dean answered the guard with a dark confidence that resonated through the crumbling walls of the courtroom. “And if you cross me _you_ will die; are you willing to take that chance?”

The demon bowed his head, shaking.

“No. No,” he stumbled. “Dimitri and me, w—we’re just leavin’, ain’t we…”

His companion nodded, refusing to look the prince in the eye.

“Go to the city,” Dean commanded as their feet shuffled. “Tell Castiel I’m coming for him.”

The guard bowed. 

“Yes, my Prince…” he promised, backing away slowly. “Whatever you say…”

And with that, the demons disappeared behind the door and fled. Tessa looked at him, her eyebrow raised.

“You didn’t kill them.” She sounded surprised.

“I didn’t have to,” he replied, and Tessa smiled.

“I always knew you would come.”

Then her face lit up.

“I have a gift for you,” she announced, disappearing from sight as she rushed towards the wreckage of the black bench and rummaged beneath it. A moment later she emerged with his token.

“My father crafted this weapon,” she said, placing the bow delicately around Dean’s shoulder, and placing the single arrow in its holster.

“He knew you were coming,” she said, patting him down. “He knew you would need help to kill your next target.”

“’The Fiercest Demon?’” Dean recited incredulously. Tessa nodded. “But why would he want to help me?”

“Oh, Dean,” Tessa said sadly. “The prophecy said my father had to die for Castiel to be defeated.”

“So, then, he…” Dean started, but Tessa nodded before he could finish.

Dean blinked, unable to form the words. Death had always intended to help him, and in doing so had sacrificed himself so Dean would have a chance; just like Chuck and Becky had done. Dean stared at the ravaged corpse of Death’s true form with the realisation that nothing in Castiel’s labyrinth was as it seemed.  

Tessa took his hand.

“Come,” she said, leading him through the doorway. Outside the courtroom, Castiel’s demons were nowhere to be found—halfway to the kingdom, no doubt, and all that stood were the frightened, bound bodies of the Tainted. When they looked into the white eyes of Death, they cowered and bowed their heads, embracing themselves for their reckoning.

“Listen, Tainted,” Tessa bellowed, and though her voice was loud, she spoke with a kindness that allowed the Tainted the courage to raise their eyes.

“You are living between two states,” she said. “Your souls have almost left you, but you aren’t demons—not yet. Castiel still does not rule you, and if someone were to defeat him you would be free of this place forever." 

The Tainted looked at each other, a few murmured to their neighbours, asking if her words held truth.

“This boy,” Tessa pointed, “this ‘Dean Winchester’ has killed Death himself, and now he’s going to kill the king. Swear fealty to him and I _promise_ , you will not be Turned.”

One of the Tainted walked slowly towards Dean, staring at him like he was a mirage; unsure if he was actually there.

“The prince from the stories?” he asked Dean shakily, wary of his words.

Dean looked at Tessa, unsure of how to reply, but all she did was smile.

“You can already feel this place changing,” she addressed the crowd, “feel Castiel’s strength beginning to waver.” She paused. “With our help, we can breach the heart of his realm, and the prince can plunge his dagger in it!”

And with that, she grabbed the hand that Dean held the knife, and raised it into the air. The Tainted stared at it a second, and then as quickly as they were fearful, their tired faces lit up as they began to cheer and chant the prince’s name.

Dean looked at Tessa, and she was smiling.

“Are you sure they’ll help me?” he asked, though the cheering already answered that question.

“Free will is a more powerful thing than servitude, Dean,” she said, her voice almost drowned out by the joyous racket. “These people don’t _have_ to fight for you, they _want_ to fight for you. And they will.”

Dean sighed, and smiled: his first victory in this godforsaken place.

“Thank you, Tessa.” And he meant it. She knew.

“Go, Dean. The Tainted and I will meet you at the city gates.”

“Good luck,” she said, before releasing the lost souls from their bindings.

* * *

One of the demons had fashioned a cot for Castiel out of dry wood and tumbleweed. It was a crude structure, but Sam had adapted to it just fine. He had been sleeping soundlessly for many hours now, and Castiel’s headache had finally gone. The few demons stood around the throne room were talking amongst themselves, and were not a bother to him. After watching the torturing he had rested the crystal ball on a small mantle near his throne. The glass was clear now, for Alastair had long departed the castle. Chuck and Becky hadn’t said a word the entire time, but even with their throats half-slit, they had managed a desperate, “I love you,” to one another before their limp bodies were thrown into a place there was no getting out from.

Castiel pondered his old friend’s fate.

The Pool of the Lost had not existed before Castiel’s reign, and for a while, it was not needed—but the realm is home to fickle creatures; wayward and restless. A mere Soul of this dimension managed to bind Lucifer and trap him under the ground, placing the thorned crown upon his own head. If Castiel could declare himself ruler, surely, so could they. And Castiel could not have that—so he manipulated the land further, and created a mighty labyrinth around his castle; a labyrinth of riddles, and danger, and never-ending pathways. Still, as the years went by, even the labyrinth proved not enough, so Castiel created something even _he_ feared: the Pool of the Lost. Souls and demons who threatened the new king’s reign were sent there to rot in squalor and filth and excruciation for the rest of eternity. The Pool was bottomless and dark and never quiet; it was a place where you were barely living, but could never die.

Talks of rebellion dulled to whispers. Whispers turned to silence. And finally silence was replaced with blissful surrender.

The Pool of the Lost was a fate worse than death, and everyone knew it.

The knock at the door startled Castiel’s thoughts. Before he could answer, the hatchway opened and in walked Crowley, followed by two demons the king did not recognise.

“What is this, Crowley?” demanded Castiel, straightening up.

“Your Grace,” he bowed. “These two were found snivelling outside the city gates. Said they have a message for you.”

“Bring them over.”

Crowley beckoned to them, and immediately the demons fell to the floor in front of Castiel, their foreheads inches away from the stone tiles.

“M—m’lord,” the first demon stammered, not looking him in the eye. “It is an _honour_ to be in your presence.”

Castiel had heard this acclamation many times since becoming king, though it did not have quite the same effect it used to.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Marcus,” said the first demon, “and this is Dimitri.” He motioned towards the second. “We were workin’ guard duty down at the courtroom, rallying Tainted n’ other undesirables.”

Castiel nodded judiciously, though he was barely listening.

“Crowley said you have a message for me.”

The two demons nodded, but Castiel could see in their eyes how terrified they were of what they were about to say.

“The boy…” Marcus started, “the-the prince… he got in.”

“Got in where?” the king questioned.

“The _courtroom_ ,” answered Marcus uneasily. “And… and he killed him. _Killed_ Death. I saw it with me own eyes, so did Dimitri!”

Dimitri confirmed with a single nod.

“He could have killed us, too,” Marcus continued, “but he di’nt. Instead, he told us to come to you to… to warn ya.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow.

“To warn me of what?”

The king watched as Marcus raised his head from the ground. The two locked eyes for the first time, but Marcus didn’t falter.

“That you’re goin’ to die,” he said, their eyes on each other, unblinking.

The other demons in the room gasped. Even Crowley looked surprised. It was a mere second before Marcus teared his eyes away and fell back to the floor in surrender. 

Castiel rose from his throne, slowly. The crowd around him held in a collective breath; the room so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The demons watched as Castiel sank to his knees before the quivering guard; the man embracing himself for annihilation.

Then Castiel did something his subjects did not expect: he smiled.

“Thank you,” said the king, putting a hand on Marcus’s hollowed cheek. “Thank you for telling me. I know how much courage it must have taken to come here.”

Marcus looked up at him now, tears falling from his black eyes.

“Thank you.” He could barely get the words out. “Thank you, m’lord.” He kissed the ground before Castiel’s feet. “I knew you would be merciful.”

Castiel stood, revelling in his worship.

“Merciful,” he said back to him. “Yes.”

The king began to turn back to his throne, but something stopped him. He held up a finger; his face stricken with curiosity.

“Tell me, Marcus,” he questioned, staring down at the still-bowed figure. “How many guards were on duty when the prince arrived?”

Marcus looked confused, but paused a moment to count silently on his fingers.

“Er, five, includin’ me, your Grace,” he finally managed.

Castiel nodded.

“Five… hm.”

Castiel caught a glimpse at Crowley. He was staring up at the king, his lips curled slightly, like he was waiting for something amusing to happen.

Castiel focused back on the demon.

“Five is a big number when you compare it to a single child,” he began, his eyes searing through the man’s pathetic form. “Such a pity you didn’t even _try_ to fight him.”

The demons shuddered, unable to find the words to defend themselves. Castiel shook his head.

“You see, boys,” he sighed. “I’ve tried to be merciful in the past, but it never did me much good. And you have disappointed me.”

He paused.

“I don’t like to be disappointed.”

“M—m’lord,” Marcus started to beg. “Please forgive us. We were scared for our lives!”

Castiel nodded sympathetically.

“I know. I know you were. But do not worry, Marcus, Dimitri: you’re going to live forever.”

Marcus dared himself to look up.

“We are?”

Castiel nodded, and smiled.

“In the Pool.”

Every demon in the room trembled.

“No,” pleaded Marcus, his voice cracking, “not the Pool. Anything but that!” He placed his forehead on the stone ground and clasped his hands together in servility. “ _M’lord_ ,” he howled. “Please show mercy, _please_ —please be merciful!”

Castiel was disgusted by the sight.

“Guards,” he called to the others indifferently, already turning his back on the two desirous creatures. “Take them away.”

Dimitri had not uttered a single word during this confrontation, but now, he began to scream. The screaming continued as the writhing demons were dragged across the floor and through the archway of the throne room. Crowley closed the door behind them and the room was met with silence.

“No. More. Mercy,” Castiel said quietly, but everyone heard.

* * *

Dean had been walking near twenty minutes since departing the courtroom, and it had been quiet. He supposed all of the demons in the immediate area had fled to the castle with news of the prince’s first victory, and this made Dean grin. God, what he would have done to see Castiel’s face when he found out.

“I bet that bastard’s pissed,” he said to himself, chuckling.

The neat green hedges and checkered floor tiles surrounding the courtroom had gone, and instead had been replaced with a yellowish brown stone wall and floor. It wasn’t long, though, before the single wall opened up into a clearing and separated itself into three; all pathways seemingly identical.

Dean scratched his head. Should he go left, right, or straight ahead? If he went through one path and got lost, how was he to find his way back to the clearing? He tried to remember the fairytale his mother had read to him as a child… the one where the two children had left a trail of something behind them so they could follow it back home...

 _Hansel and Gretal!_ He remembered. _And it was breadcrumbs they’d used_. But Dean didn’t have anything like that. He was momentarily disheartened until he gazed at the dagger he held in his hand. The blade was stained with Death’s blood, but it was still sharp. Dean bent to his knees and crudely etched an arrow into the stone ground. If he reached a dead end or took a wrong turn somewhere, he could just turn around and follow the arrows back to the clearing.

Dean smirked. This plan was fool-proof.

He continued on a ways, at first choosing the middle path, but turning back once he realised it led to nowhere. After trying the path to the left, he eventually found himself back at the clearing, confused and more than a bit frustrated.

He looked towards the right path. It was the only possible way forward.

Dean began to walk through it until the entrance disappeared behind him, never forgetting to add another arrow when the pathway changed directions. He felt as if he had been walking for hours, but he was confident in his plan. He bent down by the yellow wall and etched another arrow facing forward into the dusty ground before turning left, only to be met by the familiar sight of a dead end. Dean sighed and turned around, taking a quick glance at the arrow he had just carved—only it wasn’t facing forward now, it was pointed to where he had just come from. Dean could feel his heart sinking, though he wanted nothing more than to tear the throat out of whoever had been playing him.  

“Son-of-a-bitch!” he cried. “Who’s been changing my marks?”

“Whoever they are, they’re long gone now,” came a voice from behind him.

“Shit!” he said, whirling round.

A man was stood in the clearing, a huge wooden door behind him. He was smirking.

“Wait,” Dean said, bewildered. “This was a dead end a minute ago!”

“No,” replied the man knowingly. “That’s the dead end behind you.”

Dean followed his gaze. Turning around, the path he had just arrived from had disappeared, and instead had been cornered off by four huge walls. Dean wanted to scream.

“It keeps changing!” he yelled at the man. “What am I supposed to do?”

“The only way out is through this door,” he answered, pointing a thumb behind him. “And it just so happens, I’m the man who guards it.”

He smiled cockily at Dean, his balding head glistening in the half-light.

“Name’s Zachariah,” he said, holding out his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

Dean crossed his arms, making sure the dagger was in full view.

“Let me guess,” he glared. “Another demon?”

Zachariah’s hand dropped, and he looked disgusted.

“Don’t you dare compare me to one of those _things_.”

He scowled.

“I’m a half-soul,” he said imperiously after a few moments. “And a powerful one at that.”

Dean’s eyebrows knitted. “What the hell is a half-soul?”

Zachariah sighed theatrically.

“Half-souls: few in number, but we’re the most powerful things in this place, scattered and roaming the swile crevices of this labyrinth. We have a job to do, and the running of this place _depends_ on us. While the king sits his rump on that thorny throne of his, it’s the half-souls who get things done.”

Dean raised his eyebrow.

“Pretty speech,” he mocked.

“Jibe all you want,” snarked Zachariah. “The only way you’re getting to Castiel is if I let you.”

The two stared at each other for a moment, tensions rising, but then Zachariah chuckled.

“Smart of you,” he said, “passing yourself off as a Tainted so you could get into the courtroom unchallenged.”

Dean scratched his head.

“Actually,” he admitted. “I didn’t pretend. The demon’s caught me before I had a chance to do anything.”

“Better keep that to yourself,” the man advised, though he was smirking. “The vermin are scared of you now. They think you’re clever. You wouldn’t want for them to learn the truth.”

“What does it matter if they think I’m smart? I’ve already killed Death. It’s this dagger they should be scared of.”

“Oh, they are, Dean,” agreed Zachariah, “just more so of the boy who wields it.”

“All right,” Dean propositioned. “You going to let me through or not?”

“That depends,” Zachariah replied.

“Depends on what?” exasperated Dean.

“If you make it worth my while,” the half-soul answered provocatively.

Dean sighed. He was in no mood for games.

“What do I have to do to make it worth your while?”

“Straight to the point,” Zachariah grinned, “I like it.”

The suited man took a step forward, lowering his voice as he addressed the young prince.

“If you kill the king, and I use ‘if’ lightly, I want you to promise to have me elevated from this position.” He paused. “I want… _more_ than this. I want to live in the castle. I want wine, and girls, and—”

Dean raised up a hand.

“All right, buddy, let’s not get too crazy here. Wine, I can get you, but girls? I’m sorry, not with that hairline.”

“Do you want to get through this door or not?” The half-soul cautioned.

Dean sniggered.

“Anything else?”

And then Zachariah smiled at him darkly.

“Your mother.”

Dean’s heart stopped. His legs turned to jelly, and the grip on his dagger wavered. He had to stop his hand from dropping it as he looked into the taunting eyes of the half-soul.

“How do you know my mother?” he asked him slowly. He had so many questions now; he could barely fathom his own thoughts.

“Everyone knows your mother, Dean,” answered Zachariah. “The Mother of Fire.”

The young boy faltered, daring himself to speak.

“Is she here?” He didn’t know which answer he was more afraid of.

Zachariah smiled, and began to nod slowly. Dean gasped. He could barely breathe. He could barely stand. Until a moment ago, Mary Winchester was a dead woman, alive only in the nightmares his mind tortured him with. Now this man was telling him that that was not the case, that she was alive, and somewhere in this labyrinth. The boy steadied himself. He tightened his grip on the knife and pointed it threateningly at the half-soul.

“Where is she?” he asked through gritted teeth.

Zachariah still gave him his taunting smile, but the sight of the dagger inches away from his face made his lips quiver slightly.

“Now, Dean,” he started, “you can’t expect a man to answer your questions with a knife so close to his throat, do you?”

Dean’s hand did not lower.

“I want you to tell me where my mother is, right now, you son-of-a-bitch.”

Zachariah faltered.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the _exact_ whereabouts of your mother, Dean.”

Dean waved the dagger closer.

“Don’t test me you f—”

The man raised his hands.

“I promise you, I am not! I don’t know where she is. Truly. Only there have been whispers since you arrived here that she is _somewhere_ in this labyrinth.”

Dean’s anger slowly began to subside, and he lowered the dagger slightly.

“How am I supposed to find her?” he asked, though he was not hopeful for much of an answer.

“I wish I could say,” came the expected reply. “Just keep going forward, I guess.”

Dean glowered at Zachariah, though he knew there was no more getting out of him.

“You better not be lying to me,” he said finally, lowering the knife and sheathing it in his belt buckle.

“I swear,” was all the man replied with.

Dean swallowed, running a hand through his hair and breathing out slowly. He had spoken with Zachariah too long, and he needed to go through the door.

“Are you going to let me through now?” he asked pointedly.

Zachariah wavered.

“Do you promise to do as I ask if I let you through?”

Dean’s anger rose in him again like bile.

“You want me to give you my mother, you sick piece of shit? No way in _hell_.”

“Then I’m afraid,” shrugged the half-soul, “our deal comes to an end.”

Dean could not contain himself. He screamed as he lunged towards Zachariah, pushing him violently towards the door and holding the knife to his throat until a bead of blood appeared on the knife and slicked its way slowly down the dagger edge. The two panted heavily, not saying a word, until Zachariah broke the silence.

“You can’t do it, can you Dean?” he tormented. “And I don’t mean just killing me. Do you actually think you can kill Castiel, you simpering wad of insecurity and self-loathing? No. You’re just a human, Dean. And not much of one at that.”

Dean had had enough.

“Get out of my way,” he said, before striking the side of Zachariah’s throat with the point of his dagger.

The man yelled in shock and pain, falling to the floor and clutching his throat with leathered hands, blood falling through the gaps in his fingers and dripping loosely on the ground beneath.

Dean readied his dagger again, until Zachariah raised his bloodied hand before him in surrender.

“Wait!” he gurgled. “All right. I’ll let you through, just—just don’t kill me.”

“Deal,” Dean agreed finally, lowering the dagger.

Zachariah winced as he picked himself up, clutching at the gash on his neck. He waved a hand towards the door and it opened slowly. Zachariah kept his eyes on the floor as Dean marched past him.

“Appreciate the help, buster,” he thanked Zachariah smugly, patting the half-soul roughly on the shoulder.

Dean walked briskly through the door and took a few steps, but before he could even realise it the ground had opened up and he was falling—falling deep and fast through the earth. Dean yelled in surprise and fear and dropped the knife, though he didn’t hear it clatter.

His yells were cut short as he landed—hard—on the ground. Dean groaned in pain and curled into a ball. It felt like his whole body was broken. Then he heard a voice from above.

“I lied to you,” called Zachariah, peering at him over the hole. “Sorry. I guess I’m just not big enough to forgive you, _buster_.”

Dean could hear the man laughing as he grabbed the trap door and pulled it closed. It sealed with a bang, and Dean was shrouded in darkness.

* * *

Castiel stared at the crystal.

“He’s in the oubliette,” he said stiffly.

The demons around him laughed.

“Shut up,” the king snapped in annoyance. “He shouldn’t have even got this far." 

The demons stiffened. After what had happened to Marcus and Dimitri, they did not want to risk angering the king. After a moment, however, Castiel’s face lightened, and he smirked.

“Crowley,” he said, ushering to his servant with a wave of his hand. “Have our dear friend Meg summoned. I have a… proposition for her.”


	9. Deceived Alliances

Meg kicked a pebble with the end of her boot, watched as it rolled and thudded across the dirtied ground, and wondered how she was not yet completely insane. This was all she had to do in this godforsaken place; kick rocks. For years she had guarded the door to Castiel’s realm, for years she had waited, and waited, for someone to come through and demand entrance. For years she had watched the hill overlooking the labyrinth, walked up it herself, and realised there was nothing beyond it other than more rocks for her to kick.

Meg let her mind wander as she looked to the hill that no one walked down. Her mind settled on an eery thought—the Pool of the Lost. Years ago, she had almost been sent there. But here—this place—her guarded home, was the compromise Castiel had eventually settled on. For so long, she had been grateful, but now her mind was whispering things that both shamed and shocked her. 

_At least you wouldn’t be alone._

“No,” she said out loud. Nothing would be as bad as being sent there. She knew it to be fact as well; her father had played a significant role in the Pool’s creation. He had relished in telling his children of its depravity, its soulless essence, and Meg had vowed to know the Pool of the Lost only through her father’s terrible stories. She was never to see that place with her own eyes, for fear she would have to rip them out herself.

Meg shook her head then, willing her thoughts to disappear. She needed to focus on what was important.

 _Dean Winchester_.

He had been in the labyrinth for not even a day, and already things were changing. A sense of unrest had settled in the air like stale wind, and even Meg, an exile of Castiel’s land, could feel it.

“Knock, knock.”

Meg gasped. Behind her, the puggish face of Castiel’s servant stood smiling at her, his fat little body leaning against the door. She recovered, and only looked over at Crowley with vague disinterest; she did not want to give him the satisfaction of startling her.

“I can see you want something in that ugly little smile of yours, Crowley,” she said, not even bothering to hide her contempt for the man.

“One hundred years and that’s all you can say?” asked Crowley in feigned disbelief. “My, my, we _really_ need to work on your manners, young lady.”

Meg scoffed.

“It wasn’t good manners that turned me into a demon now, was it, _old man_?”

“True enough,” sighed Crowley, already growing bored of their misplaced banter.

“It’s your lucky day, you know,” he said then, smiling at her devilishly. “You’re being summoned.”

“Then why is it that I’m not feeling very lucky right now?”

“Who knows?” Crowley smiled. “I guess you’ll have to see.”

“Come now,” he said, opening the door to the labyrinth and offering Meg the palm of his chubby hand. “He’s waiting for you.”

* * *

When she had opened her eyes after blinking, Meg had already been transported to the gate to Castiel’s city. She had not been here for over a hundred years, but it was exactly how she’d remembered it: a greying squalor of filth and decay, a hub for the labyrinth’s most depraved inhabitants. Crowley opened the gate and allowed her entrance with a patronising bow. She scowled at him, but took the lead as she walked past the gate and into the city. A few steps in, and she hesitated. Meg had not seen this many demons in one place since before her exile, and she looked at her kin with a repugnance she did not even try to hide. What disgusting creatures demons were, with so many of them the very visual of death. Their skin was rotted away, their black eyes sunken—and the smell, the smell was almost debilitating. Meg covered her nose with her hand, and Crowley howled with amusement.

“Stop pretending like you’re any better than them, sweetheart,” was all he said, and Meg glared. She was a demon, yes; her soul was as black as her eyes, but Meg knew she was so much more than the scum before her. She was beautiful; she knew it. She saw the way the prince had looked at her that morning as he stood before the door. She knew her honeysuckle voice had captivated him, her chocolate-coloured eyes glittering like his equal. And even now, alone after one hundred years, Meg had still managed to grip on to the wavering veil of sanity. Not much could be said for the demons that lived in the city. They were all mad—animals. All instinct, no conscious thought. 

So yes, Meg thought, she _was_ better than them, and she was better than Crowley.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a face she had not seen since long before her banishment. Any declarations of superiority were quickly squandered by the beautiful and terrifying figure of the king’s most trusted guardsman. Her name was as lovely as her golden-coloured hair; she was Lilith, and she had lived in the Land of Lost Souls since even before Castiel had first stepped foot here, when the old demon king Lucifer ruled this realm. Lilith stood before Castiel’s kingdom, adorned with soft cloth and weapons of fierce beauty. When she caught sight of Meg, her white eyes glistened, and her unsettling smile shook Meg to the floor.

“Meg,” the demoness beckoned. “It’s been a long time. How fares the land before the door?”

Meg’s voice caught in her throat, faltering: she refused to appear weak in front of Lilith, and she did not want to give Crowley another excuse to mock her.

“Quiet,” she said after a moment’s pause, and she was glad her voice hadn’t wavered.

The two demons stared into each other then, as if waiting for the weaker one to look away first. But it was Crowley who broke their gaze as he stepped in between them, his fat little body feigning authority.

“As much as we’d love to stay and chat, Lilith,” Crowley said, and even his voice had a hint of fear to it, “we really must be going. The King is waiting.”

Lilith nodded her strange, unsettling smile, and stepped aside.

“Who am I to keep you from our beloved?” she said. Crowley nodded awkwardly as he walked past her towards Castiel’s castle. As Meg followed behind him, Lilith took a hold of her arm; her grip was cold, and despair washed over Meg like rain.

“I will see you again,” Lilith said, and her voice was quiet: she was speaking only to Meg now. “You know what you have to do.”

She let go of Meg and closed the door behind her. Meg followed Crowley to the fortress; her disgust and apprehension in reuniting with her enemy king was far outweighed by the words of Lilith, which she found were repeating themselves again and again in her head with every step.

_I know what I have to do._

* * *

She could feel the stares, hear the whispers, as she entered the doors to Castiel’s castle. The demons drunk in her presence with gleeful frenzy. They knew who she was, what she had done. Her crimes—her courage and her treason—were infamous, and the demons both adored and despised her. Meg ignored them all. She walked through the hordes with her head held high, and forsaked the sinking feeling in her stomach as she approached the door to the throne room. Crowley opened it, and stepped aside to allow her entrance. He grinned unkindly at Meg, whispered “good luck,” though she was too nervous to react to his priggish nature. She walked past the servant towards the throne.

She saw him, then, smiling softly from heightened ground. He did not say a word, only watched her with vivid interest. As she got closer, she took in the king for all that he was: beautiful, sensual, proud, petty. A fraud. He stared at her, unblinking, with eyes that were always blue—never black. Looking at him now, taking him in, letting him stare deeply into her, Meg remembered just how much she hated the king of the Land of Lost Souls.

“My King,” she said. Meg lowered her head as if in servitude, but she would not kneel—she would never kneel.

“How does it feel to be back, Meg?” her asked her jeeringly.

“Unnerving,” came her reply, and Castiel laughed.

“Well,” he said, settling, “I can’t say I’m surprised at that. But you’re a smart girl. I think you know why I’ve sent for you.”

Meg shifted awkwardly.

“I have an inkling,” was all she said.

Castiel nodded, but the way his jaw tensed showed Meg her attitude was already grating on him, just as it always had.

“Yes, I’d assume you would have,” spoke the king candidly. “I mean, you _did_ let the inkling through my doors just a few short hours ago.”

Meg’s calmness disappeared. She was done with this façade, these careful words. She was to answer the king the way he deserved.

“What did you expect me to do?” Her voice was raised, and Meg could hear the shocked, excited laughter exuding from their audience. The demons loved a show.

She expected Castiel to scream back, to answer her with cruel, mocking words, but he surprised her.

“Oh, Meg, you misunderstand me.” Castiel smiled. “I’m not angry. You did exactly what you were supposed to.”

The demon blinked. She questioned the kindness of his words, for surely he would not have summoned her if she had pleased him.

She riddled the king bluntly.

“Then why am I here?” she asked.

“You know,” Castiel began, as if he had not heard the question. “The thing I hate most about this place, about my job as its ruler…” He paused. “My punishments have no finality.”

Meg blinked at him, but he continued.

“I can maim, I can torture, I can banish, but I cannot… kill.” He looked at her. “And now, there is someone in my labyrinth who can.”

“Dean Winchester.” Meg said the name slowly, enjoying the look on Castiel’s face as she did.

“He wants the baby, and he’ll kill me to get him.”

“And if he gets through these doors, he will.”

The two looked at each other in quiet, co-dependent acceptance.

“Do you understand, now, why I’ve summoned you?”

The demons in the throne room were silent with captivation, waiting on Castiel’s every word like he was unveiling the next prophecy.

“I can’t kill him,” Castiel continued. He spoke slowly, lapping up the silent attention his subjects gave him. “But I can do something _almost_ as gratifying… almost as final.”

Meg scoffed; she found little time for the king’s much loved dramatics.

“Let me guess,” she asked, folding her arms impatiently, “have him fail your little test so he’s trapped here forever?”

Castiel smiled.

“Precisely.”

“And let me guess the other thing;” she played, “you need me to do it?”

Castiel laughed, and clapped his hands together.

“You are making this _so_ easy.”

He settled, leaning forward in his throne as if preparing to share a secret.

“So, what do you say, Meg?”

Meg smirked at the king. She would never make it so simple for him.

“I say, what do I get out of this deal?”

Castiel’s smile faltered, and his cheery disposition was replaced with ice.

“This isn’t a deal, Meg,” he reminded her. “Have you forgotten what you did to me? What you almost made happen?”

The demons around them held in a collective breath. After a few moments, Meg answered.

“I think about it every day.” It was spoken quietly, wistfully. Castiel was displeased, but he remained calm—he even managed a smile.

“Then you should know that you have absolutely no say in this whatsoever.” He paused, building the tension he so loved to create. “And if you refuse, well—I think you can guess what will happen.”

She could, as did every other demon that was listening. Her father’s stories repeated themselves in Meg’s mind, as if she was remembering a place she had never even visited. But Meg refused to be threatened by her own insecurities. She refused to serve a king she did not love for free.

“But if I do this—if I get Dean to fail,” she spoke strongly. Courageously. Treasonously. “If I make him yours—you’ll have to reward me, you’ll just have to.”

Something in Castiel’s eyes changed—deliberating, weighing, scheming.

“I’ll tell you what, Meg,” he said after a pause. “You do this for me… and I’ll let her out.”

Meg’s cold heart thundered in her chest.

“I thought you said this wasn’t a deal,” was all she managed to say. The sheer magnitude of the king’s words left Meg quivering.

“I changed my mind.” Castiel smiled treacherously. “Don’t you want to see her again?”

Flashes of a past she had tried to forget blazed in Meg’s head until her ears rang. It was her fault. It had been all her fault. And now Castiel was offering her a chance at redemption, to save her, to _free_ her.

“I’d do anything,” she told the king, and every word was meant with vehement honesty.

Castiel smiled, because he had known exactly what to say to earn Meg’s loyalty. He despised the pretty creature, but he knew that the only way to have Dean fail, for him to become a lost soul, to become Castiel’s and Castiel’s alone, was through Meg—and no one else. Castiel would watch Dean from the shadows, caress his face through the smoke of his crystal ball, and he would observe as Meg did exactly as was commanded.

“Do it, then.” Castiel said, getting up from his throne so he was looking at her from above. “Earn your place back in my kingdom. Make sure the boy fails, and she will be forgiven.”

* * *

Dean awoke to a strange feeling. He blinked twice, attempted to adjust himself to his surroundings, but there was nothing about this place he could familiarise. It was dark and very cold. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was, what had happened.

_Zachariah…_

The name taunted him from beyond the darkness, if not for a slither of light high above him. He looked up, and he remembered it—falling through the trap door that Zachariah had opened, shattering upon the unmarked ground, and hearing the half-soul’s chuckles as he had locked the door behind him.

“That… bastard,” Dean rasped through winded breath.

Dean willed himself to get up—tried, and failed. He groaned, and in his mouth was the copper-taste of blood. He spat and stayed on the cold floor a moment longer. He could not deliberate his injuries. His body felt cold and numb to the point where he could no longer feel the ground below him. As if he had left it and was floating through the air and through the earth, until he was at Castiel’s castle and his brother was in his arms. Dean groaned again. He could not deliberate his injuries, but his anger, his frustration—he let them engulf him whole. He thought of Zachariah, of Castiel, of the demons and of his little brother.

“Get up,” he told himself.

His winces echoed as he got to his knees; he grinded his teeth so hard he half expected them to shatter.

“Yeah, Dean,” came a voice from the darkness. “Don’t be such a wimp.”

A light appeared, illuminating a face. Her face. It was Meg; her pretty brown eyes glittering behind the candlelight.

“Why are you here, Meg?” Dean demanded, and the accusation in his tone made Meg raise her brow. He was not happy to see her, he refused to be, but a part of him was quietly glad to have companionship in this dark, lonely place.

“I’ve come to save your stupid human ass, that’s what.”

She held out a hand, and even though every part of him warned him not to trust her, he took it. He slowly got to his feet, and he was proud that he was able to stifle the groans of pain that stirred themselves within him.

“See?” Meg smirked. “That wasn’t so hard.”

She turned around.

“Come on.”

Dean did not want her to get too far, as without her tiny ray of candlelight to guide him, he would be alone in the darkness once more. He followed as fast as he could, though made sure he was still a ways behind; he liked the way Meg’s hips swayed.

“Wait,” she said, interrupting his daze.

She bent down; the light flickered against the walls in erratic dance. Dean watched as she picked something up and studied it.

“What’s this?”

Dean only needed a second to answer her question. It was his dagger; stained with the blood of Death and the traitor Zachariah. Dirtied by the soil to which it had landed on. Dean had dropped it as he had fallen, almost forgotten it through his will to escape this place, and now painfully aware that it was now in the hands of a creature it was designed to kill.

“What a pretty toy,” Meg said, daring herself to stroke the bloodied edge with the tip of her finger.

“It’s mine,” said Dean, and he sounded childish, like a little boy refusing to share. Meg noticed, and tore her eyes away from the knife to look up at him. He grit his teeth and hardened his glare, but Meg would not be intimidated. She gave the boy a playful smile.

“Are you sure you know how to use it?”

“Better than you.”

The two stared at each other, and all hint of Meg’s playfulness was gone. He deliberated his options. He could take the knife from her if he wanted to, but only Meg knew the way out.

“Oh, Dean,” Meg’s smile returned now, and her face appeared to light up even more by the candle. “I’m just teasing.”

“Here.” She passed it to him, and Dean at once felt foolish for his trepidation.

“Thanks,” he said awkwardly, putting it back in his bag.

They began walking once more. Neither spoke; an unwelcome silence that made Dean nervous.

“How’d you know I was down here, anyway?” he asked finally.

“The labyrinth…” Meg started in a dreamy tone, not looking back. “She’s got soul, you know? She talks to me. I understand her.” Meg paused to trace a hand lovingly against the dirt wall.

“I’ve lived here a lot of years, and I know parts of the labyrinth that most have forgotten about.”

Dean sniffed, grimaced.

“Okay,” he said, and it came out like a question.

Meg did not elaborate, and the two were left in silence once more. Dean grinded his teeth, searching desperately for something else to fill the void.

“Hey,” he started, remembering, “I thought you said you couldn’t actually enter the labyrinth. I mean, you were pretty adamant when I asked before.”

Meg stopped walking, then, and Dean almost went right into her. She turned around, and she looked at him with a seriousness that made him feel uneasy rather than quelled.

“You wanna know why I’m here?” she asked him bluntly, not expecting an answer. “Why I’m helping you?” Dean waited. “You are the _Prince_. The Prince from the stories. Stories that have been told to me for as long as I can remember. You are famous, Dean Winchester. And, yeah, I’m a demon, a liar, a good-for-nothing. But I’m not stupid. And when the battle is at my front door, I’m gonna do whatever I can to make it on top—and with Castiel dead, that’s exactly where I’ll be.”

It was everything she had ever needed to say, because even though she was a demon, a liar, a good-for-nothing, it was enough to finally make Dean satisfied.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” she said back, and they nodded at each other in mutual contentment.

Meg turned back around, and Dean followed. He was surprised at how big the oubliette was, how narrow its walls were, how often the path stopped, twisted, and turned; just another part of Castiel’s infinite maze.

“There’s so much more to the labyrinth than meets the eye,” Meg said after a while. “It’s what I love most about her.”

Dean scoffed.

“You act as if this place is a person.”

Meg was not fazed by Dean’s dismissal, in fact, she welcomed it.

“In a way, she is,” she replied honestly, almost sadly. “The labyrinth is my only friend.”

Dean snorted.

“Jesus, that’s depressing.”

Meg only laughed.

“Don’t mock what you don’t understand, Dean Winchester.”

“Alright, alright.” Dean did not care to delve anymore.

They continued on a ways, and Dean tried to keep himself from falling behind. The pain in his legs was now a dull one, but his back was tensing up with every step. Meg must have noticed somehow, because she stopped.

“How are you feeling?” she asked him.

“You know, I’m a little stiff,” Dean joked. “I could do with a massage.”

She only rolled her eyes.

“Ask one of the other demons. They do have the fingernails for it.”

Dean would have laughed, but the pain in his back was getting harder to ignore. All he wanted now was to see daylight.

“I’m… loving the bonding here, Meg, really,” he said through strained breath. “But, are we getting out of here any time soon?”

“Easy, Dean,” Meg defended. “All in good time.”

The pathway kept going, but Meg was no longer interested in a way ahead. Instead she began to finger the walls next to her, putting her ear to it and knocking at random parts.

“Okay,” she said to herself. “Okay, baby, where are you? I know you’re somewhere. Come on, baby.”

She continued fingering the wall for a few more seconds, whispering, knocking, stroking.

“You’re insane,” Dean said, almost wanting to back away.

“Ah!” she said in reply, grabbing a hold of the soil and attempting to tear it apart. Before Dean could offer another disparaging remark, the wall had begun to open and brightness was seeping through.

“There we go,” Meg said proudly. Dean smiled, despite himself.

“And then there was light.”

They weren’t out of the oubliette yet, but they were out of the darkness, at least, and Dean could not help but feel a little grateful for that. In this new part, there were no longer shadows and soil, but stone walls and floors, much like the labyrinth above ground. Though it still smelled of the earth—undisturbed and dirty.

The two continued through these new passageways a while longer, and though Dean had felt stilled by the light, something about the stone beside him felt wrong, like it was not meant to be touched, like he should make himself as small as possible as to not accidentally brush past it. Meg did not seem to share his apprehensions, as she had lazily placed a hand against the stone and was letting it brush each part as she walked. The longer she did this, the stronger Dean’s sensation became. He could not escape it. He thought he heard whispering, but he knew it was just his mind playing tricks on him; feeding his anxiety. The voices got louder and Dean’s pained steps quickened until he could put a hand on Meg’s shoulder. She turned around.

“You’re going to die in here,” she said—only it was not Meg, Dean realised. It was a voice from behind her. He looked beyond Meg’s shoulder to the wall ahead, finding the cause of the voice: there were faces. Faces in the stone. And they were speaking to Dean.

“Turn back,” one whispered, and its voice was gravelled with dust.

“This is not the way,” another said, yet this one’s boomed within the narrow passage, echoing amidst the grain.

Dean felt sick, disgusted. Who were these faces? Why were they here? Why were they saying these things?

Meg continued to walk past them, her hand brushing across their pebbled grey faces.

“Don’t listen to ‘em,” Meg laughed, dismissing Dean’s paranoia. “They’re only saying that ‘cause they don’t want us to leave. They’ve been lonely.”

“Let’s just keep moving,” said Dean, willing they came across the exit soon. The sooner they got out of this path of talking faces, the better.

They walked until the voices became quieter and the walls had turned back into smooth stone. Dean had almost calmed down, until up ahead, before a turning, he spotted a willowy creature hunched against the wall. It was hooded, and it did not appear to be moving.

“Meg?” Dean started.

“I see it,” was all her reply.

Meg slowed her pace, watching the figure as she approached closer. It was bound to be one of the forgotten; years spent in the dark, half-dead, too tired to attack.

“I don’t think it knows we’re here,” whispered Dean, edging closer to her.

“Just walk past it,” she said. Dean took another glance. The creature was so faded, it might as well have been another face in the stone.

They began down the next passage, until they heard a faint noise come from behind.

“Where do you think you’re going?” it said, and as soon as Dean had turned around, the hood had gone, and the creature was standing tall. Dean’s heart stopped as he realised who it was—the blue-eyed bastard king.

“What are you doing here?” came Meg, who was now next to him. It was the same question Dean had asked her when she had appeared to him in the darkness, but somehow it seemed an odd thing for her to ask now.

“Is that the greeting I get after all this time?” Castiel said, a brow raised at her impertinence. “Meg, I thought your anger would have perhaps subsided by now.”

Meg did not say anything more, only scowled, but Castiel ignored her. He instead turned his attentions to the boy, who was ever so slowly putting his hands inside his canvas bag.

“Dean,” nodded Castiel. “It’s good to see you.” He walked closer, and Dean’s fingers trembled. It had felt like years since he had last seen the king’s face; for it already seemed weathered, slightly wrinkled—not as perfect, but still beautiful.

“How fares my labyrinth?” he asked Dean conversationally. “You’re not having too much of a hard time, are you?”

Dean laughed harshly.

“Are you kidding? It’s a piece of cake.”

Castiel looked at him oddly, but not unkindly. He took a moment, but laughed like they were old friends.

“Piece of cake,” he repeated fondly. “You humans love your little expressions, don’t you?”

Castiel laughed again, and Dean was so conscious of his own hands, the way they moved so slowly towards his dagger, that he had trouble concentrating on anything the king had to say. He had been so sure that he would not see the king again until his castle, as Dean dug his weapon slowly into him—watching as the life left Castiel’s eyes. Not now, not in this oubliette, not with this pain in his back and legs, not with his knife wedged so deep into the bottom of his bag. Dean’s heart beat so fast, he could barely breathe.

“But I am not so stupid,” Castiel continued then, “as to assume you mean you’re finding my labyrinth easy? In which case, I grow weary of the word. Where’s the fun in “easy”? Without a challenge, there just is no point—wouldn’t you agree?" 

Dean could end it now. He was a prince. He did not need a Righteous Weapon to kill the king. He could do it now as he had done before—it would be possible. If the dagger could kill Death Himself, then surely it could kill a king. Dean could grab his dagger right that second, and plunge it into the king’s soft flesh; watch him die, watch him become just another victim of the prince’s war. He just needed to get a little closer.

“Sure,” humoured Dean, barely processing what he was saying.

“I’m so glad you think so,” agreed Castiel, looking satisfied. “Well, I guess it only makes sense I take away—hm—nine hours of your allotted time? Now you only have two days and… three hours to find your brother. That _should_ make it slightly more challenging.”

Dean’s concentration faltered.

“Bullshit!” He registered. “That’s not fair!”

Castiel only smiled.

“I really hope you enjoy the rest of my labyrinth,” he said, getting closer to Dean until he was only a breath away. He put his mouth to the boy’s ear.

“This was only the beginning,” he whispered into it. Dean ignored the goosebumps that ran through his entire body, almost binding him breathless. He took a firm grasp of his dagger, swung it wildly beside him, ready to sear itself through kingly flesh. But his flailing proved futile. The dagger met nothing but air, and as Dean turned around, Castiel had already disappeared.

Anger, disappointment, futility, all corralled themselves into one word:

“Dick!”

Meg stared at Dean, seething with rage.

“Idiot!” she said, pushing him roughly. “He was right there, and you let him go!”

“You think I don’t know that, Meg?” Dean shouted back.

Meg was not satisfied; she was relentless, unyielding.

“He was talking to you for what, a full two minutes? And you just stood there, lapping up his every word like a love-sick fucking puppy!”

“Oh, shut up, Meg!” Dean relented. “You don’t think he wouldn’t have noticed me just rooting through my bag, like, ‘oh, what could Dean possibly want from in there?’” he imitated in a shrill voice. “You’re the one who said we just needed to walk right past him—la-de-da—as if he wasn’t the king of the fucking land!”

Dean expected to be met with more protests, more declarations of his ineptitude, but something in Meg’s expression had changed. She had stopped listening to him—her eyes were glazed and she was quiet, concentrating.

“What?” Dean asked her, still angry.

“I thought I heard—” Meg started, but there was no point in finishing. There, far down the left of the pathway, was a distant sound, a sound that was getting louder. Dean watched slowly, until out of the darkness, four shapes appeared. He could not make out what, but they hung from the walls like spiders, and snarled like starving wolves.

“What is tha—?” Dean started, but he was answered by four single, screeching roars. Meg grabbed a hold of Dean’s shoulder.

“The Cleaners!” she shouted.

“What?”

“Just _run!_ ”

Dean sprinted, faster than he had ever done in his life. He could hear them behind him, screaming and hideous. Their very roars echoed within the tunnels and made the walls tremble. They ran together, never stopping, never pausing for breath. He wondered just how far the tunnel went before it ended, and they were torn apart by whatever it was that was chasing them.

Meg called out suddenly, pointing a finger past him.

“Dean!” she shouted through winded breath. “A gate!”

His gaze followed hers. A few metres ahead, to their right, was an ironclad gate. Dean sped towards it, and shook at its mighty frame. It was chained, padlocked shut. He ran at it, bounded it with his shoulder. The creatures were getting closer.

“Your dagger, Dean!”

Meg grabbed his hand as if he was stupid, and brought it towards the gate. He pushed away her grasp, and began to hack at the padlock with the brunt of his bloodstained knife. He belted it twice, the sounds of the creatures getting closer. As he was about to give up, the padlock broke free and the gate opened. They rushed through it, pushed it shut behind them, just as the creatures had leapt from their holdings with their teeth bared.

The creatures thrashed wildly through the gaps in the iron. Dean used his entire body to keep it shut, but he felt his grasp wavering.

“A bolt!” Meg noticed, grabbing at it from the side and pulling it down across the gate. The gate shuddered violently, the four snarling bodies of the creatures grabbing at it fiercely, but remained closed.

They turned around. They were in a small circular room that went on as high as the stars.

“A ladder, look!” Meg pointed upwards. “It’ll take us outside!”

The ladder looked ancient; decayed and rusted. Some of the steps were damaged, almost split in half, and others were missing completely. Dean did not have time to consider its safety. He rushed towards it.

But something emerged from the shadows. It grabbed on to the ladder, and looked down at them with its black orbs. Dean finally saw the creature clearly, saw its decayed, greying skin, how taut it lay against its body and stretched over its face. Its skeletal limbs bent hellishly as it pondered Dean from the ladder. It truly was the silhouette of a monster; twisted and sickly, its form curved like the end of a sickle. Dean stared into its face, and realised with repulsion that it must have been human once, a long time ago. Its eyes were scarred and sunken, its nose hooked and leathered. It no longer had lips, instead were a row of sharp, war-seen teeth that covered its face like a smile. At last the creature opened its mouth, and screeched louder than its brothers, who so desperately fumbled at them from behind the iron bars. The creature jumped straight for Dean; its long arms opened in embrace. It fell into him clumsily, and the two rolled across the brick floor into the opposite wall. It regained composure, snarling at Dean like an angered dog. Before it could strike, Dean had gripped his dagger, and slashed at the creature’s gaunt face—hacked and stabbed, until it pierced its black, sphered eye. It cut into it so easily, like a fork to a grape. Dark, thick puss splattered from the remains, soaking Dean’s face and mouth. His gags were masked by the creature’s anguished screams. Before Dean could even blink, it had wrapped its hands around Dean’s neck, and begun to pull. He wore its fingers like a necklace. They tightened, strained so firmly that Dean could not even think. He felt his eyes bulging out of his skull, and his heartbeat quicken and drop like a broken metronome. Before he could lose consciousness, he tightened his grip on the dagger, brought it down madly on one of the creature’s arms, and began to hack manically. It screamed, and its grasp loosened. Dean cleaved, stabbing and slashing. He was possessed now. No longer human, only an extension of his weapon. He hacked until the arm tore free. The creature yelped, as a dog would, and disappeared into the shadows.

“You’ve hurt it!” Meg cried, shaking Dean from his frenzy as she pulled him roughly from the ground. “We’ve got to get out of here, now!”

Meg took in front, climbing rapidly, carelessly, up the iron ladder. Dean followed her. His heart was beating in his ears so loudly he could barely hear the roars below him. He did not know what had overcome him—the way he had attacked so gleefully, expertly. Free from all emotion. Pure.

Something grabbed Dean’s boot, pulling him back into reality. He was pulled from the ladder, and landed on the ground in a heap. Dean groaned; his body a rag-doll. The creature loomed over him. Blood poured from its stump and the space where its eye had been, streamed down its body and on to Dean’s clothes. It panted at him, wheezed like a wounded animal. It looked upon him with a carnal hatred, so foreign from the looks of Castiel and the other demons. It brought down a hand towards his neck once more, slowly, relishing in what it was about to do.

“Get away from him!” he heard a voice from above say. Before the creature could look up, Meg had jumped from her spot on the ladder, and straight on to the creature’s back. It wailed, flailing its one arm wildly as she held on. Dean forced himself up. The creature threw her off, wrapped its hand around her neck and tugged. Dean ran towards it, he screamed, and held the dagger high above his head. He swung, and cut off its arm with a single chop. The detached limb remained around Meg’s neck, and she tore it off violently, screaming in disgust and anger. The creature sunk to its knees, blood spurting from its other stump, landing on Dean’s face, in his mouth. There was so much he surely felt he would drown in it. Its lacerated body writhed on the ground, its huge mouth wailing in anguish. The creatures behind the gate seemed to scream more, and the iron rattled and shook.

They began to climb again. Dean held the dagger in his mouth now, ignoring the taste of rot and blood. He skipped two steps at a time. They were getting closer to the door above, and though the screams of the creatures pierced and echoed, he could not hear the one he had maimed so thoroughly. He looked down, could see it no longer. By now it was either dead or dying, bleeding out in a corner of the circular room. Meg reached the top, took a hand out, and attempted to pull open the manhole.

“Is it opening?” Dean shouted.

“It’s stuck!” Meg replied.

Dean stifled a groan of impatience. Below him, the rattling of the gate was getting louder. He looked. Something on it sprung loose, ricocheting off the wall like a stray bullet. Something in the mechanism came loose, and the gate shifted.

“Oh, God,” Dean clamoured. “They’re opening the gate. Hurry, Meg!”

“I’m going as fast as I can!”

Meg continued to struggle with the opening. Dean immediately regretted not having gone in front, but there was nothing he could do now but wait—and hope that the gate held long enough for them to escape.

Something made Dean look down, then. A clink, like metal against metal. He looked down. The armless creature had appeared again, dragging itself along like its entire body was deadweight. It was climbing the ladder—instead now it was pulling itself up with its teeth. It ate the iron, tore into it—it’s sharp teeth shattering like wood chip, its mouth spraying blood and bile with every gnaw.

“Oh—Jesus!” Dean could barely stand to look at it. This thing was far uglier than Death’s matted form had ever been.

“What?” Meg asked, looking down. She caught sight of the creature, and her voice shook.

“Fuck me, that thing just won’t give up!”

“Don’t worry about it!” Dean bellowed. “Just get that hole open!”

Dean readied the dagger. He had mutilated this creature too much, it was time to end it.

The cover began to shift. Dean heard a gasp.

“It’s opening!” Meg cried, panting. “Fucking shit, it’s heavy!”

Light began blaring in, so bright, as if the very heavens were opening. Dean looked down again. The creature was so close, now, only a few steps below him. Its one eye pierced into him, its face twisted into a squinted snarl as the light from the outside blazed in on it. The creature got close enough, used the last of its strength to leap from the ladder. Its huge, decimated mouth opened wide. Dean swung. The dagger crunched as it met bone, wedging itself deeply into the creature’s head. Its eye widened, as if surprised at the fate it had met. It stared at him a second longer, until its eye dulled and its gaze became distant, and faint. The creature let out a final sigh, and began to fall backwards. The knife pulled out of its skull easily, and Dean watched as the creature glided through the air and fell loudly on to the ground below. Its broken figure gleamed as more light from the outside began pouring through.

“It’s open!” Meg called proudly. “Come on!”

Dean followed her out of the hole. The light poured over him, so bright it hurt. Clean, fresh air immediately filled his lungs, and he breathed it in, consuming it whole. He settled, looking down over the hole into the oubliette. The creature seemed so small now that it was dead.

His thoughts were interrupted by the unshackling of chains. The gate broke free of its hinges and flew open. The remaining creatures huddled together at the bottom of the ladder, where their kin lay dead and bloody. They looked up at the two, and screamed.

“Close it, Dean!” shouted Meg, grabbing a hold of the cover and shifting it back over the hole.

The creatures began to climb, and unlike their armless brother, they were fast. Dean and Meg scrambled at the opening, wedging it closed. They were so close to the top. Dean saw the sunken faces, the taut, skeletal hands, grabbing for him furiously. He saw them until they were covered again in darkness, and the manhole slotted back into place.

Neither said anything for a moment. Amidst their panting, Dean cocked his head and listened. Wailing and scrambling could be heard, the clattering of nails against iron—and then, silence.

“Do you hear that?” Dean asked.

Meg placed her head against the cover for a second. She looked up at Dean.

“They’re gone.”

The creatures had given up, and had retreated back into the darkest crevices of the oubliette—hunting others, but no longer hunting them. The two looked at each other, in sheer amazement, and began to laugh. 


	10. Two Wise Men

The air above ground was clean and quiet. Dean sighed, and took in a long, deep breath. When he turned his gaze towards Meg, she was looking at him strangely. She put a hand to his cheek.

“You’re bleeding.”

The tips of her fingers stung his face a little, and he winced. He placed his own to where hers had been and pressed gently. He looked at his finger, and a dark red drop of blood ran down it and into his palm. Those godless creatures… Dean’s stomach knotted at the thought of them beneath his feet, fearless and rabid and buried in darkness, aching to destroy him as he had their brother. He hadn’t even noticed the scratch until now, but now the sweet sting the creature’s fingernails had made left his cheek throbbing.

“What the hell were those things?”

Meg looked at him with a troubled expression. It was the first time Dean could see her clearly since their first meeting at the labyrinth’s door. Her clothes were stricken with dirt, matted and ripped at the seams. Her once straight hair was tangled. Her eyes were still their chocolate brown, but they glittered less than before. She seemed different; wary, younger. Not a demon; like a girl.

“Cleaners,” she answered uneasily.

Dean said nothing; Meg registered his confusion.

“Demons,” she translated. “Old. Very old. They live in the oubliette. They like the dark. They travel in packs, traversing the passages… Cleaning.”

“Cleaning?”

She sighed, but not unkindly.

“They’re very territorial,” she explained. “No one is allowed in their precious oubliette. They see something or someone blocking their path—” She made a noise resembling death and wrapped her hands around her neck. “Rip your head off, and put you in the stone.”

Dean contemplated her words, remembered the bodiless figures that lay within the walls, and how they had begged for him to turn back. What a horrifying fate, he realised.

“So that’s what those faces were.” He shuddered.

“Sure,” Meg nodded. “Like I said, we can’t die. Those faces; souls and demons still breathing. Trapped, but alive.”

He could barely process the depravity. Castiel’s labyrinth was becoming more and more sinister which each passing minute. How could one man create so much corruption? he thought. Disgust turned to anger. They had almost been torn apart down there, and they were barely prepared.

“And you didn’t think to mention,” he said, his tone cutting, “that during our little stroll we might just run into a pack of wall-climbing demons that like to decapitate people?”

His words were ridiculous. If he wasn’t so pent up, he might have found it funny. Meg put her hands up.

“I didn’t wanna worry you!” she said, her voice sincere. “And anyway, they live in the darkest crevices of the oubliette. Once we got to the stone, I thought we were safe.” She looked down. “I’m sorry.”

Immediately, Dean felt terrible. Why was he angry at her? Without Meg, he would still be in the oubliette, reaching blindly from one path to another, most probably walking straight into the Cleaner’s nest, unable to do nothing as he was ripped apart.

“No—no,” he began, “I’m sorry. You saved me, Meg.” He sighed. “I know you put on this front because you think you’re supposed to be this big, bad demon, but you’re not. You’re a good person.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Oh, spare me.”

“No, listen,” he argued. “I wouldn’t have gotten out if it weren’t for you, and that’s the truth.”

The two stared at each other, and Meg blinked at him stiffly. It only took Dean a moment to realise he had perhaps been a little too honest with her. The silence bore into him, and he cleared his throat. He swiftly changed the subject.

“So why were they at the stone, then?”

Meg’s expression relaxed.

“As feral as they are, they’re still loyal to their master.”

There was only one person that could be.

“Castiel,” he said, his jaw tense.

“He must have summoned them.”

“God,” Dean said, almost chuckling. “I hate that guy more and more.”

“Yeah,” nodded Meg, “that’s the thing about our King of Demons. Always getting someone else to do his dirty work…”

At that, she looked strained, as if she had just said something she shouldn’t have. She didn’t let Dean ponder it; she pulled at his arm by the scruff off his sleeve and led him forward.

“Come on,” she marched ahead, “now you have even less time to find your brother.”

Dean followed her.

“Tess said the next thing I needed to do was find the Fiercest Demon,” he said after her, “and kill him with this arrow.”

He had not paid much attention to the half-soul’s token since he had left the courtroom. He took an arrow from the quiver on his back and studied it. It was made of dark wood, singed, as if it had been placed upon a fire just long enough for it to start burning. The tip was old, rusted iron. It seemed ancient, barely usable as a weapon, but then again, everything in this labyrinth seemed ruined. From the unpruned hedges, to the dusty, untrodden floors. He took out his dagger and twisted it in his hand. The entire thing was coloured red now, stained beyond recognition. It truly was a killer. The strange words on its side remained unclear, but in a way, he could understand them perfectly, because now he was a killer too—and by the time Dean reached the end of the labyrinth, he would have used this dagger to kill many more.

He blinked. He didn’t want to lose himself to his thoughts. He wasn’t alone anymore; he had questions for Meg he needed answering.

“You heard of him?” he called after her. “‘The Fiercest Demon?’”

“Oh yeah,” replied Meg sullenly, not turning around. “I’ve heard of him.”

“You know where I can find him?”

She slowed, bowed her head. Dean approached her side, but when she looked up her eyes remained forward.

“I… haven’t been there in some time,” she said quietly. “He lives to the East. A fort. He’s a General. Well, he was… He and Castiel aren’t on the best of terms.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I don’t really,” she admitted. “He was disgraced before I was banished. But maybe things have changed. I mean, he’s not in the Pool—I know that for sure. And he’s not outside the labyrinth; I would have seen him.”

It was as if she was talking to herself now. Dean wondered what was going on in her head.

“You seem kinda invested in his whereabouts.”

“Do I? she asked, still in another world.

“You knew him or something? You guys were close?”

“Well,” she said, her mood focusing. “I mean he is m—”

Meg’s words halted as she looked ahead, noticing something amidst the hedges. Dean followed her gaze, settling on two figures that stood together closely, a little ways in front. They stared back at Meg and Dean in familiar astonishment.

“Would you look at that?” The taller one spoke first. “I truly think my eyes deceive me.”

His companion smiled.

“If they deceive you, they deceive me also, brother. I see him, too.”

Meg rolled her eyes, recognising them instantly.

“Oh, great,” she mumbled.

The two men stepped out from the clearing. They were dressed oddly, like famous figures from long ago. They stood together, posing regally. The taller man had his arms crossed, brooding and proud. He had blond hair, with patches of neat scruff on an ageing face; a rockstar after his prime. The shorter one seemed infinitely more mischievous. He had brown hair that went past his chin, and a never-faltering grin, making him appear a little goofier in comparison to his more traditionally handsome brother.

“Dean Winchester,” the brown-haired man said. “The saviour of our land, the prince of righteous blood. Brave, and good. You honour us.”

Dean stood his ground. By now, he was able to discern which of the creatures in Castiel’s labyrinth were souls or demons. These men definitely were not demons, but that didn’t mean he had to trust them. Meg obviously didn’t; she scowled, letting her tousled hair fall in front of her eyes like a sulking teenager.

“Can I help you?” Dean asked skeptically.

“The question is,” the blond man replied, “can _we_ help _you_?”

Dean could hear Meg sighing impatiently beside him.

“They call us Gabriel,” the shorter man said, opening his arms like an actor preparing to bow. His companion followed suit.

“And Balthazar.” He spoke grandly.

“Brothers,” said Gabriel.

“Wise men,” continued the other.

They bowed in service. Meg tutted from Dean’s side.

“Yeah,” she said, seething at them. “More like tricksters and thieves.”

The brothers turned away their attention from Dean, and gazed disinterestedly at the demon.

“Uh,” Gabriel uttered in slight disgust. “Who is this creature who thinks she can interrupt our conversation?”

She clenched her fists.

“My name is Meg,” she answered bitingly, “you half-wit, half-souls.”

The wise men took her words in, looking at each other in amused realisation.

“Ah… Meg,” smiled Gabriel.

“ _The_ Meg,” his brother affirmed.

“We know all about you.”

“Loyalist,” they listed.

“Traitor.”

“Revolutionary.”

“Exile.”

At that, they chuckled.

“Apparently no longer,” noted Gabriel, and Balthazar nodded.

“What a strange coincidence that _you’re_ our prince’s companion.”

Meg scowled, and shuffled at the ground with her boots.

“Whatever,” she mumbled.

Dean looked back and forth in childish confusion. Whatever it was they were talking about, he wasn’t in on it. He touched Meg on the shoulder and turned them both away from the grinning brothers.

“Uh,” he said, his voice hushed, “do you know these guys?”

“Know _of_ ,” Meg replied regretfully.

“Yes,” spoke Balthazar, who had heard every word. “Unfortunately we have not met in person.”

“Until now, of course,” his brother continued, and gave another mischievous smile.

“Castiel may be proud, but his home is modest.” Gabriel spoke matter-of-factly, edging closer to Dean and Meg. “It’s a small place. Everybody knows everybody.”

Balthazar nodded, walking at his brother’s side until they were only a few metres away.

“People don’t have secrets here,” he said, his voice cocky as he stared directly into the demon’s eyes. A threat, perhaps, or just coincidence.

Her body tensed, confirming the former, but she quickly recovered. She grabbed Dean’s arm and marched past them.

“If you’re done,” she said, not looking back, “we have to go.”

The brothers held out a hand to stop them.

“Now, wait a minute,” Balthazar called hurriedly. “Dean needs to hear our proposition first.”

“That’s right,” continued his brother. “We have been so excited to meet you, Prince.”

“We want to help.”

“We want to guide you.”

“Share our wisdom with you.”

“Ignore them,” said Meg, picking up the pace. “They’re even bigger frauds than Castiel.”

“We know the future,” called Gabriel, ignoring her insult.

“Every possible variation.”

The shorter brother hurried in front of them, blocking their path.

“Would you like us to tell you yours?”

Dean side-stepped past him, trying not to laugh.

“Uh, I’m good.”

Gabriel huffed like a child.

“Oh, come on, Dean,” he urged. Balthazar stood next to him and gave the prince a million-dollar smile.

“Who wouldn’t give to know their own destiny?” he asked temptingly.

Dean rolled his eyes. These men did not seem ‘wise,’ they seemed like idiots, crooks, complete low-lifes. They were nothing like Chuck. He had been wise, and he had told Dean everything he needed to know about this place and his role in it.

“I already know mine, thanks,” he said, urging past them.

“Not all of it,” retorted Balthazar.

The brothers followed them through the labyrinth, calling after Dean without a pause for breath.

“You can’t even comprehend what this labyrinth has in store for you.”

“You need our help.”

“Think I can manage!” called back Dean, not turning around.

“We can tell you about Castiel!” Gabriel called, changing tactics.

“You don’t know the way he thinks,” intrigued Balthazar. “What goes on in that pretty head of his.”

“We can tell you about that so-called friend of yours,” continued Gabriel.

“We know all her dirty little secrets,” said Balthazar enticingly, “and we can tell them to you.”

Dean could sense Meg stiffen beside him, but she did not say a word. Dean felt bad for her.

“Not interested,” he dismissed, walking faster.

“Wait!”

The wise men knew they were losing. There was only one thing they could do now.

“We can tell you about your mother!” they shouted at Dean in perfect unison.

He stopped in his tracks.

“My mother?”

He turned to face them, and the brothers grinned. They had won.

“Oh,” said Gabriel, squeezing Balthazar’s arm, “now _that_ got his attention.”

Meg sighed audibly.

“Dean,” she tried, “we really don’t have the time.”

“No, wait,” he said, turning away from her so the two men had his full attention. His face was completely serious, suddenly desperate. “You can tell me about my mom?”

The wise men nodded.

“You ask, we answer.”

Balthazar held up a finger.

“For a fee, of course.”

“Of course,” reiterated Gabriel.

“We are of course not liars,” he said now, his voice in playful rhythm. “We answer your desires.”

“But knowledge is not free,” continued Balthazar, “a fee we must decree.”

The brothers laughed, but Dean did not join in.

“A fee?” he asked dumbly. “What kind of fee? I don’t have any money.”

The wise men stared at him, trying not to laugh.

“Money?” Balthazar repeated, and he fell into a fit of giggles. “Word,” he said, catching his breath, “he is clueless.”

“You mortals and your money,” mocked Gabriel.

Balthazar put his mouth to his brother’s ear.

“Capitalist pig,” he said into it, not concerned in the slightest that Dean could very easily hear him.

Once the brothers had recovered from their laughing fit, they looked back at Dean with a new-found seriousness.

“No, no,” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “Money is worthless in this context.”

“We desire something a hell of a lot more valuable.”

“Something you treasure.”

“Something you keep close to you.”

Dean was worried. What did he have on him that they would want? Not his dagger, surely.

“That amulet you wear around your neck,” Gabriel spoke slowly, answering Dean’s question in a heartbeat. “We sense it is special to you.”

“You would not part with it willingly,” said Balthazar, and, as if in instinct, Dean’s fist closed around it in protection, in child-like stubbornness.

The brother’s sensed his trepidation, speaking carefully.

“That is, unless,” Balthazar said, “you got something in return.”

There was a pause.

“Such as,” Gabriel perked, “valuable information on how to kill Castiel and find your mother.” He hit his head as if trying to stop himself.

“Oh!” he cried, in mock regret.

“Oh, you’re bad,” jibed Balthazar, trying not to laugh.

Gabriel shrugged.

“I just can’t help myself!”

Dean’s jaw tensed at the sound of their laughter. He held up a hand, and immediately the brothers were silent.

“Wait,” he said. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “Tell me exactly what you can do for me.”

“Well,” started Balthazar. “Usually, we demand one item for every question.”

Gabriel nodded, but he was unfocused, deep in thought.

“But,” he said debatably, “considering you’re the Righteous Prince…”

His voice trailed off. Balthazar nodded as if Gabriel had finished. He too had that same look of unfocused concentration.

“Yes…” he started, nodding carefully. “Considering you’re the boy from a thousand-year-old prophecy…”

“An almost holy figure, if you will.”

“I guess we could do, uh…”

The brother’s gazed once more at nothing, until Gabriel put his finger up.

“A discount,” he said, as if the word had been on the tip of his tongue the entire time. Balthazar liked the idea. He nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, taking it in. “A discount.”

“For princes,” said Gabriel. Balthazar nodded his approval once more.

“A princely discount.”

Dean resisted the urge to groan. He held up his hands impatiently.

“Which is?” he asked with harshness.

The brothers looked at him disapprovingly,

“For one item,” Gabriel explained, after a pause.

“That amulet,” piped in Balthazar, pointing to his neck, as if Dean was not painfully aware of what he had been asked to give away.

“You get…” pondered Gabriel, weighing his options, “three questions.”

Balthazar looked settled.

“Yeah,” he said approvingly. “Three questions. I like that. It’s a good round number.”

“Well, not really,” said Gabriel.

“No.”

“But still,” he said, losing himself in his brother’s nonsense, “a good number nonetheless.”

“Oh, most definitely.”

Dean almost started screaming. He feared the idiots would never start making actual sense, and that they would just talk, and talk, forever, until Dean’s time was up and he and his brother were doomed to remain in Castiel’s land for eternity. Sam a demon, and Dean always a day away from falling to corruption himself.

Meg looked up at him warily.

“Dean…” she warned, her voice stern.

“Dean?” egged the brothers, excited beyond comprehension.

There was a long pause. Dean stared at the two men, two idiots that actually deemed themselves wise. Every part of him, including Meg, was telling him how bad of an idea it would be to trust them. Give away his amulet? He had worn it for as long as he could remember. It had been the one constant in his life since Mary had died and his whole world had turned to shit. But these men, they were promising to tell him about her. Ever since her death, life had become more and more unclear to Dean. And now that he was in the labyrinth, Mary had become something new to him entirely. She was no longer just his mother that had died, she was what tied this all together.

He already knew his answer. Dean grabbed at the amulet, and squeezed it.

“I’m gonna regret this, aren’t I?” he said, and he could hear Meg’s groan of hopelessness.

“Oooh,” sang Gabriel mystically, “he’s prophecising.”

“The prophecy just made a prophecy!”

Dean sighed; if he was going to do this, he was going to do it now.

“Let’s see if it comes true, huh?”

He pulled the amulet over his head so it was resting in his hand. He stared at it like he hadn’t already memorised its every feature a million times before. Knowing this might be the last time he ever saw it, his fingers trembled. He felt like he would forget as soon as he gave it away. _It’s just a thing_ , he said to himself. _Just a shitty necklace Dad bought for a dollar at a car boot sale_. If this was the price to find his mother, to save Sam—then so be it. He teared his eyes away and handed it over. Both the brothers grabbed for it eagerly, but Gabriel got there first. He shoved it in his pocket, ignoring Balthazar’s glaring eyes.

“Thanking you, Prince,” he said quickly.

“Now,” Balthazar said, recovering from his envy. “Ask away.”

“Remember,” Gabriel reminded. “Three questions.”

“No more, no less.”

The wise men stared at Dean expectantly. Now the time had actually come, Dean realised that he hadn’t actually had time to think about what he was going to ask. Millions of things were running through his head, but he only had three questions. He settled on one that he hoped would get the clearest answer.

“Where is my mother?” he asked, and dread filled up inside him like bile.

“She is…” started Gabriel, choosing his words carefully, “with another,” he settled. “Deep in the dark.”

“Bound, shackled,” continued Balthazar. “Waiting for you.”

He waited for them to elaborate, but they didn’t.

“But where?”

Second question down—and he immediately regretted it. But his heart was racing; he just needed to know.

“In a place where people go to be forgotten,” came their reply.

“A place he reserves for those who make him feel the most ashamed.”

“Guarded, far away. Surrounded by many dangers, many obstacles.”

Dean blinked at them, repeating their words inside his head, trying to figure out what they meant.

“You need to find her in order to save your brother,” said Gabriel, interrupting his thoughts.

“In order to kill the king.”

Dean contemplated their answer. She was alive, and she was there, somewhere, waiting to be found. His journey through the labyrinth suddenly became a lot more complicated.

Dean had only one question left. He needed it to matter.

“Fine,” he said, his voice hopeful, but afraid. “So tell me. After all of this. After everything I’ve done to get this far. Am I going to save Sam?”

He felt sick. This was a yes or no question. If they were who they said they were, Dean’s entire destiny was about to be laid out in front of him.

The wise men stared at him, at each other, at Meg.

Gabriel spoke, his voice resolute.

“That depends,” he answered.

“What are you willing to do?”

“Who are you willing to trust?”

“Decisions…” spoke Balthazar.

“…and consequences,” finished Gabriel.

Dean thought it was over, but Balthazar opened his mouth a final time.

“The future isn’t written in stone,” he said.

Gabriel grinned.

“It’s written in a kiss.”

He finished, and the way he looked in that moment, it was as if Gabriel had just spoken the most awe-striking words ever uttered.

Dean waited, expecting them to continue. That couldn’t be it—it just couldn’t. Moments passed, and he feared that it was.

“Okay,” he said, his voice as calm as he could make it. “I’m just gonna say it. Absolutely none of that made sense.”

“The truth often doesn’t,” nodded Balthazar, his words visionary.

“No,” said Dean, “seriously, that was bullshit. I want my amulet back.”

He held out his hand, shaking it after a moment. The brothers folded their arms.

“No can do, compadre,” explained Gabriel.

Balthazar looked at him bluntly.

“We made a deal.”

Meg’s anger rose in her like fire. She had been quiet for the past few minutes, but now she could not contain herself.

“You conned him into making that deal!” she spat.

Balthazar looked at Meg disappointedly, a little bored.

“No, Meg,” he said, like he was disciplining a small child. “Because a con implies that there was deception involved.”

Gabriel nodded.

“And we didn’t deceive him.”

“In fact,” Balthazar mocked, “we were very straight about what would happen.”

“It’s his fault if he didn’t like what we gave him,” Gabriel finished, annoyed at the lack of gratitude they were receiving.

Dean knew it was no use trying to bargain. These men were crooks, plain and simple. They had played him and he had lost. It was his own damn fault for being so desperate for answers.

“Fine,” he said, relenting. “Whatever.” He turned to Meg.

“This was a waste of time.”

She folded her arms.

“I told you.”

He did not need her to remind him of his idiocy.

“Let’s just go, all right?”

The two began to walk away, their strides wide and their jaws tensed and regretful.

“Remember,” Gabriel called after them in a sing-song voice, “treasure taints!”

Balthazar burst into laughter.

“You get that one for free!”

With that, the brothers laughed and laughed until their voices were as faint as whispers.

* * *

The young prince and his companion had been gone a while; all that was left of their visit was the strange little amulet that now rested around Gabriel’s neck.

“You know,” started Balthazar, “I really don’t see why _you_ get to wear it.”

Gabriel began to smirk, but he felt his lips falter. The air around them had begun to shift, settling around the brothers like mist. It shrouded them until they were ice cold and shaking. The clouds overlapped each other, the sky above changing into a deep, bottomless black. From that blackness, came a smoke—a dark whirlwind that carried itself downwards until it was caressing the ground. At last, it disappeared, and out of the smoke came a figure, dressed as darkly as the night sky. He stood in the clearing, looking at the brothers as a hunter would its prey. The air finally cleared, and he smiled.

Balthazar stood tall, bowing to the king with a flick of his hand.

“Well,” he said cheerfully, “if it isn’t our good and handsome King of Demons, come to grace us with his presence.”

Gabriel followed suit. He lowered his head.

“It’s good to see you, Castiel.” He glanced over the king appreciatively. “Say, have you done something different with your hair? It makes you look taller.”

Castiel chuckled softly.

“Gabriel. Balthazar. Your compliments never tire.”

Balthazar bowed once more.

“And we never tire giving them.”

Castiel smiled, savouring the wise man’s flattery. Gabriel grimaced; his brother was always such a groveler.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Gabriel said, and Castiel glared at him. “Are you here because of our little rendezvous with the Righteous Prince?”

Castiel’s expression recovered, and he smiled at the older brother.

“Not at all,” he said sweetly. “I just thought it was due time I payed my favourite wise men a visit.”

Gabriel resisted the urge to scowl. The only thing that stopped him was Castiel, and how intently he was staring at his neck.

“I like that amulet,” Castiel said after a moment, tearing his eyes away to look the wise man in the face. “Is it new?”

Gabriel wanted to cover the amulet with his hand, as Dean had done. He suddenly came to realise Dean’s reluctance in giving it away. There was great power in the amulet, he knew that before even putting it on. But now, with it around his neck, resting against his chest, he found he had become quite possessive of it. It was his, he thought. He had earned it, and now his good and gracious king wanted to take it away.

“Very,” Gabriel said after a pause, his tone thick with resentment.

The king smiled. He knew how much this was torturing; it only made him more hungry.

“May I see it?”

Gabriel opened his mouth to speak, but his brother spoke for him.

“Perhaps,” Balthazar said carefully, “if we know of your intentions.”

Castiel shrugged innocently.

“I only wish to study it a moment, admire its intricacies.”

The brothers spared themselves a dreary look. They knew Castiel would not leave until he got what he came for. Gabriel sighed softly, but obediently took a hand to his neck and pulled the amulet over his head.

“If you insist, your Majesty,” he said tensely, passing it over.

Castiel held it in his hand, and brought the amulet close to him. He pondered the face, of wood painted gold. It seemed wise, discerning; a figure neither man nor woman. Its metallic horns pointed upwards, horns long and dull. Mighty, yet unrefined. It looked back at Castiel with its eyes unopened, a peacefulness so penetrating it could be sleeping, praying—perhaps even dead. He stared at it for a long while, revering its every feature. The paint was chipping, and the edges had dulled. It was cheap, worn, insignificant in every way—and yet it wasn’t. The more he held it, the more he could feel himself uncover. This amulet had been many places, seen many things, and it had been loved—loyally, fiercely—by the boy who wore it. Castiel’s gaze was unwavering. He could not tear his eyes away. He held in his hand the most prized possession of the greatest enemy he’d ever known.

Castiel was overcome with a need to possess it, to possess it as his own, to possess the boy to which it had been taken from. This amulet was more important than Dean had ever realised. He would never have given it away if he had known what this amulet could do. It was a means to victory, for Castiel to rule everyone, everything—even the boy who swore to kill him. He clenched his grasp, and forced his gaze back on the two brothers, who watched him with a knowing, pitiful suspicion.

“I think I’ll take this back to my castle,” he said, his voice as steady as possible. “Study it a bit more.”

Balthazar gave him a discerning look.

“Is that really wise, your Majesty?”

“It belongs to us, now,” perked Gabriel. “We’d hate to lose it.”

“Of course,” Castiel nodded, “but you would not be so stupid as to deny the request of your king, would you?”

The brothers looked at each other for a fallen moment, their faces already knowing defeat.

“No,” Balthazar said finally.

“Obviously not,” finished Gabriel.

“Good.”

The king smiled. It was always so easy; a tone of darkness, an unspoken threat. He would always get what he wanted. Whether he took it by force, or it was offered to him like a gift. Castiel placed the amulet around his neck. The golden face felt cold against his chest, and filled him with an energy he had never felt before. He felt he could barely endure it, but he remained somber, steady. He felt so close to Dean, now, as he if he was walking in the boy’s very skin.

“Till next time, gentlemen.”

He turned to go, but a question that bore on his lips made him pause.

“One more thing before I go,” he said, turning back around. “The Righteous Prince. What did you think of him? Did he surprise you?”

The wise men laughed softly, but without humour.

“Oh, no,” Gabriel said. “He is exactly how we expected him to be.”

Balthazar nodded.

“He is his mother’s son, after all.”

“Do you think he has it in him?” Castiel asked cooly, ignoring the feeling of overwhelming dread. “Do you really think he can kill me?”

There was a pause that made the sky go dark. Castiel awaited their reply feverishly, his teeth grinding in apprehension.

“That depends,” Gabriel answered him finally.

“You have the amulet, now,” Balthazar said, nodding towards the painted face.

“What happens next,” Gabriel said stiffly, “is up to you.”

The king was satisfied. He smiled at the wise men.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said, and within a moment he had disappeared amidst a shroud of black.

The two wise men stared at the empty space the king had just stood. Balthazar looked towards his older brother with a troubled expression.

“That was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

Gabriel continued to stare at the clearing.

“Yes,” he affirmed, not looking at him. “But we weren’t exactly going to tell _him_ that, were we?”

* * *

Although he was reeling the loss of his amulet, Dean could not help but enjoy the walk with Meg. The part of the labyrinth they had reached was quiet, uninterrupted. They made short conversation, but mostly he was content with the silence. He looked up at the sky. It remained a dim half-light, the same dull brown it had been when Dean had first arrived. Castiel had given Dean three days to reach the end of the labyrinth. He had already been there a while, and in the tunnel, the king had taken another nine hours away, just because he could. Dean realised he actually had now idea how long he’d been in Castiel’s world, and how much time he had left.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Meg, breaking the silence.

“I was just wondering how long I’d been here,” Dean said. “The light never changes. I’m never gonna know when one day ends and the other begins.”

Meg didn’t say anything for a moment. Dean watched her. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Meg put a hand in her pocket and brought out a pocket watch, small enough it rested delicately in the middle of her palm. Then, she yanked off the silver chain she wore around her neck and hooked the watch through it.

“Here,” she said. “Turn around.”

He did, and Meg stepped behind him, holding the chain by its ends.

“I feel bad those jerks took your amulet,” she said, putting it around Dean’s neck and fiddling with the clasp.

“There,” she said, attaching it. She moved to face him, and nodded. “Bet your neck doesn’t feel so naked now.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin at her. They locked eyes, and the deep brown of her irises twinkled. Meg smiled back—almost.

“See here,” she said, ignoring the way he was looking at her. “The time says four minutes past nine. It’s night now. You’ve got three more hours of today, and then you’re on to your second.”

He grasped at the watch, just so he could see how it felt. It was cold and smooth against his palm. It wasn’t the same. His amulet had always felt rough and sharp when he had gripped it. Its horns a tiny weapon, cutting into him when he wanted to feel a pain separate from John’s. Of course it wasn’t the same, but it felt good anyway. Meg was right; he liked the weight on his neck, how it felt against his skin. In that moment, the gesture was enough for Dean to reach out and kiss her—but he would never be so stupid as to try.

The silence of that instant had lost him completely, until his ears pricked at the sounds of a terrifying scream. It was loud, and close, and Dean’s heartbeat quickened in his ears. Meg grabbed at him, and pulled Dean behind a hedge. She peered over, and when she had looked back around, her face was stricken with a fear he had never seen before. The screaming continued until the voice was hoarse, and could only manage erratic groans of pain and helpless fight.

“What the hell is going on?” Dean whispered tensely. He looked past Meg’s tight expression and around the hedge. In a clearing, a few yards over, was the source of the screaming. A man, his belly soft with age and his hair thinned and greying, was suspended upside down from the branch of a dying, leafless tree. Around his ankles was a ring of rope, tied in the way of a noose. Around the man were six demons, circling him, screeching and chanting as if in rabid worship. Their voices drowned out his cries like they had consumed his pain and were celebrating it. Dean had not seen demons like this before, so brutally and unapologetically insane. The demons at the courthouse had at least been organised. Careful, rigid with responsibility. This group, however, seemed in no way restrained. Their clothes were ragged, barely enough to cover any part of them. Their hair was long and wild, and their bodies covered in blood. They screamed gleefully, dancing with reckless abandonment around the hanging man. Wretched, and free. But Dean wasn’t looking at them anymore. Behind the man, was a figure dressed in grey. He did not seem like the others. He was calm, and still, but not like the ones guarding Death’s home. He did not look like he served anyone. He was his own master; Dean could tell. In his hands were instruments of iron and silver, long and jagged, slick, precise. He held them in thin, unshaking hands—hands that were covered in a dark red stain. As Dean watched, the figure held up an object that glittered, ready to be used, and dug it deeply into the back of the hanging soul. The figure's expression did not change, except for his eyes. They were alive. Electrified. Blood splattered on the floor, and the tortured man convulsed in agony.

Dean could not bear to look anymore. He turned back to Meg, who had sunk to the floor, and was holding her knees close against her chest. Dean crouched next to her.

“Alastair…” was all she said after a moment, her gaze unfocused. She seemed far away.

“Who?” Dean asked desperately, trying to ignore the sound of splattering blood.

“We shouldn’t be here,” she said suddenly, her mood sharpening. She looked at him, almost hysteric. “We need to go. Now.”

She got up, and held out her hand impatiently. Dean stood, but did not take it.

“They’re torturing that guy!” he cried. “We can’t just leave him.”

“Oh, yes we can,” said Meg. Her words were harsh. It reminded Dean why Meg was a demon and not a soul.

“Who is he?” he tried to understand, pleading. “Why are you so afraid of him?”

“That demon…” she whispered, pulling at Dean’s sleeve so they were crouching again. “Alastair. He’s Castiel’s greatest weapon. He’s _insane_.” She shook her head wildly, her words not enough to convey the depravity of the demon in grey. “What he’s doing to that soul, is _nothing_ to what he would do to us if we stay.”

Dean shook his head, unsheathing his dagger.

“I can kill him.”

Meg grabbed his wrist in frustration.

“He won’t let you,” she said, and shook him. “He’s stronger than both of us. He would win.”

Dean pushed her hand away, and tightened his grasp on the knife.

“I have to try.”

Meg put her head in her hands, seemingly despaired—but when the tortured man began to scream again she was overcome with anger.

“For fuck’s sake, Dean!” she seethed, her voice low but jarring. “Just because you’re the Righteous Prince, _doesn’t_ mean you have to be the hero every goddamn time!”

She stood up and held out her hand again. Her anger had disappeared, but she remained stern.

“Come with me,” she pleaded. “I’ll take you to the fort.”

Dean’s silence was agitating.

“Do you want to find your brother or not?”

She was right. Of course she was. Everything she said made perfect sense. Dean had been in this labyrinth for already a day, and he did not feel one step closer to finding Sam. If he was to follow his destiny, be the hero the prophecy said he would be, then he would have to be smart. Pick his battles instead of always rushing in blind. That’s what the Righteous Prince would do. _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few_. A sudden memory played itself in his head, of him and his dad watching the _Star Trek_ films at two in the morning, over and over again until he had memorised every word. That line held truth. If he was to save the souls of this labyrinth, he had to come to terms with the fact that not everyone was going to make it.

He deliberated a moment, almost nodded—but something made him stop. His conversation with Death crept inside his head and played itself like a film:

_“You say you are going to save these souls, but that is just out of convenience. The truth is, you could not give less of a damn about any of them.”_

Chuck, Becky, even Death: they had sacrificed themselves so he could be one step closer to killing Castiel. He needed that to matter. He hadn’t saved them, but he could save the rest, couldn't he? _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few_. Fuck that. If he went with Meg, left this soul to be tortured until he was as broken as the faces in the oubliette, then he might as well just take Alastair’s place, and carve the blade into the soul’s flesh himself.

“My brother will have to wait,” he decided, standing. “I’m going.”

Meg stared at him disbelievingly. Desperate and ashamed.

“You’re a goddamn fool,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m not going to follow you.”

Dean refused to look at her. A few minutes ago, he had almost kissed her. Now, he couldn’t even stand the sight of her.

“Fine,” he said bluntly. “Go.”

She began to back away. Regretful, but resolute.

“If you prove me wrong…” she said, trying not to sound hopeless. “Keep going straight. You’ll find two doors. Go through the one on the right.”

Dean did not answer. He simply readied his dagger.

“I really hope you prove me wrong,” she said, giving him one final pleading stare. He looked at her quickly, apathetically, then turned away. He could hear her footsteps as she fled, until all that was left was the soul’s tortured screams in front of him. A pang of fear and regret rang in him, making his stomach churn. She was gone again—perhaps forever this time. He bit his lip, and turned back to the demon Alastair. He stood tall, revealing himself to the creatures and the soul they tortured.

Alastair’s gaze fell away from the bleeding man. He looked up slowly, locked eyes with Dean’s and smiled pleasantly, as if he had been expecting him.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, and his voice was thin and quiet and full of wanting. “Thank you for joining us.”


	11. New Friends, Old Problems

Alastair’s followers had stopped dancing, and were now silent—panting and relishing the sight of Dean through wild, twisted grins. Their leader unveiled himself from behind the tortured soul.

Alastair stood a few yards in front of Dean, his grey shirt spattered in blood both fresh and old. Dean could get a better look at him then, see his waif-like frame amidst pale skin, and a face so gaunt it was like staring at bone. Alastair had a grey beard, short but ungroomed, covered in blood, and his eyes seemed to bulge against his rawboned cheeks. The soul had noticed Dean as well, and was staring at him with blank eyes. Were they pleading, or broken? The man no longer screamed, only hung.

“My friends and I,” Alastair said, addressing Dean gently, “we were just playing a little game. Would you care to join us?”

Dean swallowed involuntarily.

“It doesn’t look much fun.”

Alastair’s attention had shifted, instead focused on the knife that Dean gripped with a steady hand.

“Is that the dagger I’ve heard so much about?” he asked, studying it carefully. “What a beautiful blade, adorned with…” Alastair trailed off, his eyes squinting as he considered what lay within the iron. “Yes,” he said, satisfied, “so many dead languages. So many dead things.”

He looked back at Dean, and smiled at him darkly.

“You like killing with it, don’t you?”

Dean didn’t answer.

“You’d like to kill me with it,” the demon finished, and he smiled again.

It was a provocation, a challenge. Meg had told Dean; if he tried to kill Alastair, the demon would win. That is why she had fled. Dean was not so stupid as to assume he was invincible. He had almost been torn apart by the creatures that lived in the tunnels of Castiel’s forgotten oubliette. Talking with Alastair now, seeing him for all that he was, he knew now that he was wrong, and Meg was right.

“Let him go, and I’ll spare you,” he said. Alastair could see the knife clearly; see its stains of use. Perhaps the threat would be enough.

Alastair did not seem fazed by the prince’s words, however. He looked at Dean disapprovingly, a childish frown enveloping his gaunt face.

“But I’m not through with him yet.”

Dean grit his teeth; he tried to sound threatening.

“Too bad.”

“Hmm.” Alastair ran a skeletal hand through his beard, as if contemplating. “I see that we’re in a little bit of a predicament. You see,” he said, pointing at the hanging man, “this soul is my property. It’s so hard to find pure, undamaged meat in this place. So when I find some, I take it.”

He paused to look at Dean darkly.

“And now you want it for yourself? Hmm. I think there is only one way we can settle this.” He smiled, and his teeth were black. “You take his place.”

Dean shuddered, but he remained unwavering.

“No thanks,” was his reply: blunt, almost bored sounding. Alastair pondered Dean’s answer as he folded his arms.

“Are you sure?” he asked playfully. “I thought the Righteous Prince would be used to sacrifice by now. And is that not why you came here?” He ran a finger down the soul’s bloodied body. “To save the things like him?”

“I came to kill the things like you,” Dean answered. He held the dagger in front of him, and the blade beneath the blood shone brightly. Alastair could not hide his enthrallment; he stared at Dean like a lover would. Yearning, hungry, desirous with need.

“Because you like it.”

Dean shook his head.

“Because I have to.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me, Dean,” Alastair taunted. “It’s not a sin to enjoy the things that shame you. It’s not a sin to be tempted by the dark.”

He began to walk a little closer, and Dean thrashed the dagger forwards. Alastair stopped, but his eyes did not falter.

“I know who you are,” he said, “what your title is, what your destiny is. But you’re not the first brother to come to this land, and you certainly won’t be the last. Good, evil. You can’t just be one of those things. Both sides call to you.”

Alastair took one step closer.

“That is why you kill. That is why the labyrinth both loves and fears you.”

Dean did not say anything for a moment. He wouldn’t know what to say, even if he wanted to. In the silence, he too stepped forward.

“Release him,” was all he said.

“I will let this soul go in a heartbeat,” Alastair replied earnestly. “All that I ask is that you give yourself to me in return.”

Dean glared at him.

“No.”

“But I want to hear the way you scream,” Alastair said longingly. “I want to taste the iron in your blood.”

The boy recoiled.

“You’re a sick fuck.”

“I prefer to call myself an artist.”

Dean had had enough of the demon’s perversion. He raised the dagger once more, slowly. It had been his truest friend in his quest so far. The clothed handle was already succumbing to wear; the thickness of it starting to harden the skin around Dean’s palm.

“I’m going to count down from three,” he said calmly, “and by the time I reach zero, I want you and your creatures gone.”

Alastair brooded at him.

“Dean,” he pleaded teasingly, “that’s not much fun.”

He ignored him.

“Three…”

“Dean,” Alastair played, “as my subject, we can accomplish great things.”

“Two…”

“My followers ache for you, Prince,” the demon said, his voice willowy and longful. “They need to see the way you bleed.”

“One...”

Alastair no longer spoke now, only watched Dean carefully as he uttered the final count.

“Zero.”

Alastair and his followers had not moved an inch. The two looked at each other for a moment, until, with a nod of his head, Alastair’s demons had leapt from their spot and sprung towards Dean, teeth bared and flailing. He struck at them with the knife edge as they screamed around him. The dagger took on a life of its own, plunging and slicing. The fight had become all too familiar to Dean, now. His body moved of its own accord, free from fear and adrenaline, like a dance well practised.

After a few seconds, Alastair’s demons lay dead and bloodied, surrounding Dean in a circle of carnage. Alastair had not moved at all, only watched Dean with a brutal fascination. He stared at the prince with his wide black eyes, hungry and awake, whetted with incitement.

“You’re so beautiful when you kill,” he said softly after a moment. “I can see why he likes you.”

Dean frowned in repulsion, his heart beating loudly in his ears. He gripped his dagger once more.

“You,” Alastair continued, enraptured in his own fantasy. “You will be my masterpiece.”

Alastair did not spare a moment to allow Dean to ponder his strange, threatening words. He bowed slightly, never taking his eyes off the prince.

“We’ll see each other again, Dean Winchester.”

“Yeah, don’t hold your brea—”, Dean started, but Alastair had already disappeared.

Dean blinked. He looked around him wildly, but the demon was nowhere to be seen. The hanging soul realised this as well. He stared at Dean, and screamed at him through his gag, trying to get his hands free from behind his back. Dean rushed over to him.

With two quick slashes, he had cut the ropes loose from the man’s wrists and ankles. The soul fell in a heavy heap on the ground, groaning loudly in pain and indignance. Dean pulled the dirtied rag from his mouth, and the soul huffed with rage.

“About goddamn time!” he roared, getting up with difficulty.

Dean blinked at him.

“What?” he asked, dumbfounded.

The soul stood up, patted himself down, and began to look over his wounds. He looked at Dean grudgingly, his face sagging with age and his eyes tired and bloodshot.

“I have been stabbed, picked at, and hung upside down for what feels like half a century,” the soul gruffed, and the slightest twang of a Southern accent began to seep through, reminding Dean of home. “I mean,” the man continued, “I knew you were comin’ and all, but you took your damn time getting here!”

Dean could not help but laugh, despite the extraordinary lecture.

“If that’s your way of saying thank you,” he said, with a hint of arrogance, “then you’re welcome.”

The man looked at him resentfully, seething at Dean through course pants. After a moment, however, his anger seemed to fade.

“Name’s Bobby,” he said, and his voice was calm. “Sorry for snapping, I guess I’m not in a very good mood. Getting tortured does that to a person.”

“Well, Bobby,” said Dean, warming to him immediately. “I’m Dean.”

He held out an open hand, but the soul merely looked at it.

“I know who you are,” he said.

Dean dropped his hand, but laughed regardless.

“Wow,” he chuckled, “we really need to work on your people skills, Bobby.”

The soul sighed again.

“Thanks for getting that creep out of my hair,” he said, finally settling. He leaned against the tree he had just been hanging from, trying to get his bearings. “But you didn’t kill him,” he reminded, and looked at Dean like one would an unruly child. “You’d think through all of his monologuing you would’a found a moment.”

Bobby sighed again, and rubbed his eyes.

“But I’m not judging,” he continued, and he gave Dean the very slightest of smiles. “You saved me, and I’m grateful.”

He got up from his resting place and rubbed at his wounds gingerly, wincing with discomfort.

“All I’m gonna say is,” he said, not looking at Dean as he studied himself, “watch your back from now on. You’ve got Alastair’s attention; it’s only a matter of time before he comes back for you.”

The soul’s words trickled through Dean like poison. He was right. Alastair was far from done with him. What he had planned though, Dean could only dare to imagine.

“What the hell was that guy’s problem, anyway?” he asked.

“The less you know about him, the better,” Bobby dismissed. “All I’m sayin’ is, next time you see Alastair, don’t let him spout any more of his pretty speeches and just stick him, would you?”

Dean stood up straight.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“Now…” started Bobby, rubbing a hand through his thinning grey hair. He seemed wary, and he perched himself against the tree as he looked around him. “Seen my hat?”

Dean turned around, scanning their surroundings. For a moment, he saw nothing but wilting hedges and the corpses of Alastair’s followers. As he looked harder, he noticed a few yards ahead, by the dip in the corner, a dirtied blue hat laid down amidst mud and stone.

“You mean this?” he asked, walking towards it and picking it up.

He handed it to Bobby, who looked at it disgustedly.

“Goddamn demons,” he said, patting the dirt off. “Don’t have respect for nothing.”

He placed it on his head, playing with it to get the right angle. Dean studied the hat; it was a dark blue, worn with age, with the white logo of the New York Yankees on it.

“Now,” said Bobby, settled that his hat was on right. “I guess I owe you. And I’m on your side since you’re the prince from the prophecy n’ all. You want something of me?” he asked. “If I can help you, I will.”

“All right,” Dean nodded. “Before this little diversion, I was being lead somewhere. And now that my guide is gone, I don’t really know where I’m going.”

“Who was guiding you?”

“A demon,” admitted Dean, “funnily enough. Her name’s Meg.”

Bobby’s brows tightened.

“Meg,” he repeated. “I’ve heard of her. All kinds of trouble, that one.”

Dean did not like his tone of voice. When he had first met Meg, right at the beginning of the labyrinth, she had told him he was famous. But it seemed that many people in this land knew Meg as well. Not in person, necessarily, but they all knew her name. What was she famous for? Dean wondered. He realised, with a pang of regret, that he may never get the chance to ask her.

“Well,” he spoke, purging his thoughts, “once she saw Alastair, she bolted the other way. Trouble is—” he pointed past Bobby. “I’m heading in _that_ direction.” He lowered his hand, and sighed. “I know to look for two doors, and not much else.”

“Where you headin’?”

“The Fiercest Demon’s fort?” Dean hoped he had heard of it.

Bobby’s face crumpled with dismay, confirming he did.

“Ugh,” he groaned. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?”

He sighed, seemingly regretting his promise to help Dean however he could.

“I can take you there,” he said after some deliberation. “I owe you that much.”

Dean smiled gratefully, but Bobby raised a finger in caution.

“But the minute we get there,” he said sharply, “I’m leaving. Alastair’s a woodland creature compared to that damned General.”

* * *

They walked a while, walked through more of the same yellow walls, the same mud and moss and hedges. It was hard to believe that they were moving closer to Castiel’s city, for nothing seemed to change. Still, Dean was glad he had someone to guide him. Perhaps it was better now that Meg had gone, for he had met too many demons to feel it appropriate in calling one a friend.

He looked at Bobby, limping by his side. His clothes were soaked in blood, and his face had a hardness to it. A semblance of pride; a refusal to reveal the pain he must have been feeling. He studied the man’s hat once more. It felt strange, that in a place so far away there could be things that reminded Dean so closely of home. He already liked that about Bobby, how familiar he seemed.

“You a Yankees fan?” he asked casually, breaking their silence.

“What gave it away?” replied Bobby sarcastically.

Dean breathed loudly through his nose, deciding not to try and make small talk again. Bobby’s face changed after a moment however, softened.

“Man,” he said, relaxing. “I must’a missed a lot of games.”

Dean smiled.

“You know,” he larked, “they won the World Series, just a few months back.”

Bobby looked at him warily.

“A few months back?” he asked. “What year is it?”

“1996.”

Bobby looked away, staring at the ground.

“Christ,” he said under his breath.

“What?”

He looked back at Dean, and the hardness had returned.

“It’s my fiftieth year in this goddamn hellhole.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“You came here in 1946?”

“Yeah,” nodded Bobby, with a surly expression.

Dean’s curiosity got the better of him. He was full of questions that nobody could seem to answer, so he tried his luck again.

“Tell me,” asked Dean, moving closer. “How is it that people end up here? What happened to you?”

“What happened is…” Bobby started uneasily. “I signed a deal with Castiel so he would save my wife’s life.”

Dean’s eyes widened.

“You signed a deal?”

“That’s how people end up down here,” he said. “You sign a deal so the king can do you a solid. Give you money, give you youth, give you what you want most in the world… Catch is, you sell your soul to him in the process.”

“Jesus,” said Dean. “Did you know that’s what you were doing?”

“Yes,” Bobby replied simply. “He came to me when I was at my most desperate. My wife was dying… Lung cancer. Inoperable.” Bobby’s voice faltered, but he kept going. “I sold my soul so she would live.”

He looked ahead of him, refusing to meet Dean’s eye.

“And for ten years…” he spoke wistfully, cherishing the memory, “we were happy.”

Dean deliberated his words.

“Ten years?”

Bobby looked at him then, briefly. He looked like he pitied Dean, lamented his naivety.

“That’s how long he gives ya’,” he said quietly. “Ten years. And then you’re dragged down here, screaming for your life and begging for mercy.”

“That doesn’t seem like a fair deal to me,” decided Dean. “Did he tell you that would happen?”

“Yes, Dean,” Bobby replied impatiently. “Castiel never lied to me. ‘You can love your wife for ten more years,’ he said, ‘and then you’re mine.’”

His paces slowed, perhaps from the pain, or perhaps because Dean was starting to annoy him less. They walked together closely.

“He told me,” Bobby continued, “‘What I’m doing now, it won’t make her invincible. She could die forty years from now an old lady in her sleep, or she could get run over by a truck tomorrow. Whatever happens, though,’” he quoted, “‘she will not die of cancer. Not now, not ever.’”

Bobby sniffed.

“I couldn’t watch her hurt anymore,” he said, ignoring the tears that welled in his eyes. “I signed my name,” he continued, not letting them fall, “and I waited.”

Dean did not say anything for a moment. He was grateful for the conversation, for Bobby’s willingness to answer his questions, but he saw how the memory was affecting him. They fell to silence for a few yards, the stillness in the air seeping through them like wind. After a while, Dean opened his mouth.

“Do you remember being taken?”

Bobby did not react at first. Dean looked over, saw the tenseness of the man’s jaw, how hard he grit his teeth. Bobby’s eyes fell to the ground.

“I knew it was coming,” he said stiffly, his teeth still clenched. “A few weeks before it happened, the whole world seemed different. Darker. Everywhere I went felt like it was shrouded in something terrible. And the voices…” he remembered, almost shuddering, “the footsteps… I knew I was being followed. I could hear them. But whenever I turned around, there was nobody there.”

He laughed then, without humour.

“I wasn’t a nice person,” he said, his voice darkening again, “the days leading up to it. Ten years is a long time, Dean. I’d almost forgotten about the deal in the first place.”

He sighed loudly.

“But knowing my time was almost up… I couldn’t stand it. I should have done things differently, I know that now, but I was scared.”

The pain hit him again. Bobby winced, grabbing at his side, but recovered quickly.

“The night before I was taken,” he said, settling, “my wife and I got into this huge fight. Worst yelling match we ever had. I said things I regretted the minute they came out of my mouth, but, I couldn’t tell her what was really happening,” he justified, “she would have thought I was crazy! So,” he went on, “I did the only thing I could think of: I left. The next day, his demons came for me. All I could hear was their laughing as they ripped the skin from my body.” Bobby shuddered, trembling at the memory.

“And then the world turned black,” he said, finishing, his voice hard and regretful. “And then I woke up here.”

Dean stared at him.

“That’s quite a story,” he said, and immediately he felt foolish. Dean had never been very good with words, never knew the right thing to say to comfort someone. Bobby did not reply. Despite his better judgement, Dean spoke once more.

“What was left of you, up there?” he asked. “A body?”

Bobby shrugged.

“I think I just disappeared.”

“Your wife must have thought you abandoned her.”

Bobby looked at him then—quickly; his irritation returning.

“No shit.”

Dean broke their gaze. Bobby walked ahead, and the boy faltered behind. How many people were in the labyrinth because Castiel had promised to save the one they loved? How many of them had walked into the deal blind, careless and desperate and promising to anything? Would they have, if they had known what would become of them? Many of the labyrinth’s inhabitants, even the demons, must have been good people once. Good, but desperate. Dean thought about Mary. If Castiel had come to him six months ago, and promised to save her in exchange for Dean’s soul, would he have said yes? They would have had ten more years together. Their family would have been together. Mary could have watched Sammy grow up. John would never have become the monster he was now. Dean shook his head sadly; of course he would have said yes.

But then Dean thought about what would happen after, what happened once his time was up. He would have just disappeared, like Bobby had said. They would have never known where he had gone, and they would always blame themselves.

“Selfish,” Dean said out loud, and Bobby looked at him.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Selfish,” Dean repeated. “Don’t you think that was selfish of you? Signing the deal in the first place? You couldn’t bear to live without your wife, but you didn’t stop to think about how she was going to have to live without you when you were gone?”

Bobby seethed, but did not raise his voice.

“Don’t lecture me, boy,” he said sternly, and John’s voice came through.

They stopped walking, and for one sickening moment, Dean thought Bobby might hit him. After a moment, however, the man’s anger faded. He sighed despondently, looking at Dean with drained, empty eyes.

“Anything you say to me is nothing I haven’t said to myself already.”

Immediately, Dean felt terrible. He had no idea what Bobby had gone through, and he was an idiot to try and even imagine it.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “I didn’t mean to judge.” He shrugged his shoulders comically. “I wished my own brother away.”

With that, they both laughed. Not because they found it funny, but through their choices—their selfish, unavoidable choices—they were bonded. And Dean was happy to have found someone like Bobby, even in a place as wretched as the king’s labyrinth.

“Well,” Bobby said at last, “least you’re honest. Now," he said, becoming serious again. "Pick up the pace. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Dean stomped at the floor, giving the older man the soldier’s salute.

“Sir, yes, sir!” he joked.

Bobby rolled his eyes.

“Just don’t fall behind.”

Dean sped up, not yet satisfied that their conversation was over.

“Fifty years in this place,” he said earnestly. “You must know all of the labyrinth’s little secrets by now.”

“There ain’t enough demons in this place to know that much,” Bobby replied.

“Still,” weighed Dean, “fifty years is a long time.”

“Pfft,” dismissed Bobby. “That’s nothing. There are people here, sold their souls so they wouldn’t die from the plague. Sold their souls so they could become disciples of Jesus Christ Himself.” Bobby sighed. “It’s best not to think about time when you’re down here, it’ll only drive you mad.”

“And turn you into a demon,” added Dean.

“Which is what I’ll turn into if you don’t pick up your goddamn feet,” scolded Bobby. “Hurry up.”

Dean smirked, but quickened his pace regardless. Bobby was already a ways ahead, marching with purpose despite the slight limp that hindered his side. He reminded Dean so much of his father, he realised, but not how John was now. For the last six months, he had been a stranger who passed by Dean like a ghost without sentience. Even when he would hit Dean, again and again, marking him with fists clenched and bloodied, it had never felt real. The glaze of John’s eyes would look right through him like he was a figure made of glass. John’s face hardly aware, but still searching. No, Dean considered, Bobby did not remind him of the John he knew now, but the way he was before, when Mary had still been with them. They had similar mannerisms, the same way of speaking. Bobby even reprimanded Dean the way John used to. It was bizarre. It truly felt like he had been transported through time, and this was just another day with the father he had loved so much.

A knot settled in Dean’s stomach, then. A twinge of sickness, a longing for days past. He teared his eyes from Bobby and stared at the ground as he walked. What was he yearning for, Dean wondered? The John he loved had been dead a long time, so wishing to go back there was futile. Dean’s father was a piece of shit, he accepted. Saving Sammy and getting out of the labyrinth would not change that.

“We’ve found your doors,” Bobby said after a while, and Dean jumped—lost in his own world. Looking up, they were faced with two large doors, crafted by dark wood and rusted metal. On top of each door was a knocker: two faces, old and hard and lifeless.

As Dean stared, something in the air shifted, and the faces opened their eyes.

* * *

Castiel had returned to his throne room in a whiff of smoke. For a moment, no one noticed his presence. The few demons that presided there were talking amongst themselves, cackling sporadically and speaking in fast whispers.

“Get out,” Castiel said, and the demons were hit with a collective startle, scattering immediately. After a moment, his throne room was empty. Only his servant remained.

The king looked at Crowley with strained patience. He needed to do it now, away from prying eyes—and he was only too wary of his servant’s tendency to prattle.

“Even you, Crowley,” he said. The man looked at him oddly, but did not speak. He bowed, and left: suspicious, but unaware.

Once the hall was empty, Castiel walked over to his throne and collapsed into it. It only took him a few moments to realise just how breathless he was, how fast his heart was thundering against his chest. He felt stifled, sickly. Castiel pulled the amulet off over his head and grasped it tightly in his palm, turning his knuckles white. After a moment, his breathing had returned to normal. He studied the wooden face with both awe and apprehension; the amulet refused to be worn by anyone but Dean. The power inside it overwhelmed him.

Castiel wrapped his fingers around the string, careful not to touch the sleeping face. He turned his attention to his crystal ball, which remained clear on its stand. He placed a finger to it, and immediately the glass fogged over to show the face of the prince. He was walking with someone that was not Meg, the king realised. He began to ponder it, until he noticed the space around the boy’s neck. Instead of being bare, what remained was a small watch face that rested loosely against his skin. Castiel’s jaw tightened: a gift from Meg, no doubt.

“You were quick to replace this… weren’t you, Dean?” Castiel held the amulet close to his face, swinging it gently.

After a moment, his envy vanished. Instead, he stared deeply at the face, and held it before his lips. He whispered, barely, into the horned figure of the amulet: soft, tender words of a language long forgotten. He spoke them carefully, with affection, like a poem memorised. His whispers carried the stirrings of a secret divulged, a promise lastly told. Castiel felt himself wilting, his fingers grasping desperately at the string. He spoke until he became lost, until he was whispering into the ear of the Righteous Prince himself. His body hardened as he became breathless, cast under his own spell.

Castiel opened his eyes after the last word was spoken. His face was hot. A bead of sweat ran down his neck and converged itself into his robe. He looked at his crystal once more, and into the boy. Dean was still walking aimlessly with his new companion. Castiel studied him now, how the murky light of the labyrinth changed his hair from brown to blond. How his eyes shone big and green, and shrouded between thick, gold-coloured lashes. Castiel stared, until he found his eyes had drifted to Dean’s mouth, lips soft and pink and pillowy—aching for _something_. It did not do him justice; a picture amidst smoke and glass.

The king no longer wished to watch him like a voyeur from the shadows. Castiel needed to see, speak to the boy in person. He loosened his grip on the amulet and put it around the crystal. The face hung from the stand, swaying back and forth rhythmically. The horned guise was discernible, godlike, but empty without its prince to wear it. He looked at Dean a moment longer, and then waved at the crystal with a flick of his hand. The vision changed to the pretty demon who never wore her eyes black. She was alone, walking in quick paces in another part of the labyrinth. Castiel’s jaw tightened at the sight, but he found himself smiling regardless. He knew she would not have stayed once faced with the threat of Alastair, just like he knew the boy would be too righteous not to leave with her.

Meg’s work was far from done, even if she thought so. Castiel removed the amulet from the stand, and disappeared.


	12. Wood and Gold

Meg did not know exactly where she was. She had been banished a long time, and her memory of the labyrinth was not as sharp as she had hoped it would be. She walked past tall walls, crude structures of stone and marble, carved in effigies of kings long since perished. She placed a hand against the graven image, trying to remember the faces of the men who had once ruled the Land of Lost Souls. They were all carved vaguely similar: weak and ugly. Some were in chains, and others crucified. All of them had won the crown by defeating their brother, who had fought to free the world and the people who lived there. Castiel’s demons had built this wall under his command, and they depicted their old rulers the way their new king demanded: monstrous, backstabbers, imperfect beings. The Righteous Princes also had their figures chiselled amidst the walls. Some were shown as trophies, others maimed and paraded, but most were just hidden away. That was what had happened to the old king’s brother. He had loved him; he had told that to Meg once, a long time ago. The brother was never seen again after the battle was forged, and the demon could only wonder where he was now.

The world had been so different before Castiel. Meg’s eyes followed each picture until her face fell on to a familiar sight. His figure was carved within the stone—god-like and beautiful, and through all her hatred, Meg could not help but stare. The king’s gravelled face seemed to look back at her, and she shuddered. She broke her gaze, and kept walking.

Meg hated herself for leaving Dean. She played his face in her mind, remembering the way he had looked at her before she fled. He had been so kind before, and the way he smiled as she had given him her trinket… She sighed, and shook her head. All Meg could think about now was the coldness she felt as she recalled his last gaze. She had proved that she was everything Dean had feared about demons: a coward, selfish, that he could never trust her again.

Meg had truly left him there to lose. Alastair was old and very cunning; he could look inside someone and know everything they kept hidden. Who they were, what they were thinking. The deepest, darkest secrets within themselves. The demon had once shown interest in Meg, many years ago, when she had lived in the city with her family. She had been protected, for a time, but once Castiel had stolen the crown, he had used Alastair as punishment to all those who had fought against him. One of those people had been Meg. Underneath her clothes, her body was still racked with the scars left by Alastair’s tools.

But now, she had abandoned Dean to the same fate. She imagined him then; bound, naked, drenched in a cloak of his own blood. Alastair’s tools sticking out of him in odd angles—his eyes glazed over, drowned in defeat.

“Shit,” she scolded herself. “What am I doing?”

She could not allow that to happen. And if it had already, she was going to have to stop it. Dean had believed in her, and his part in this world was too important not to protect at all costs.

She prepared to turn back.

“I’m coming, Dean,” she promised, and as she turned around, she was met by the sickeningly familiar sight of her blue-eyed king, smirking at her as he leaned against a wall.

“Hello, Meg,” he greeted her darkly. “Where are you off to?”

“Oh,” the demon stammered, “y-your majesty.”

She collected herself, and stood confidently.

“I was just about to meet Dean and lead him back to the beginning of the labyrinth, like we agreed,” she said, as if she had rehearsed the sentence many times.

“Oh, really?” Castiel asked, his eyebrows raised. He stood straight and took a step towards her. “Because, through all your muttering, it sounded like you were going back to _help_ the boy.”

“Of course not,” Meg rebuked. “I serve only one master, your highness. You know us demons…” she joked awkwardly, “we can’t help playing with our food.”

“Indeed,” the king said without humour.

“Hey, Meg?” he asked with a newfound lightness, as if he had just thought of something amusing. “As much as I would enjoy watching our Righteous Prince be led back to the labyrinth’s door, I have a much better idea.”

She looked at him wearily.

“You do?”

Castiel nodded, and put a hand in his pocket.

“Give him this,” he said, and threw it over for her to catch.

Meg grabbed it with her pretty, small hands. She looked down at it, realising she was holding the wooden amulet Dean had given away to the trickster brothers, only a few short hours ago. The face on the necklace made her uneasy, how it seemed both blank and knowing at the same time. She looked up at Castiel.

“His amulet?” she asked. “Why do you have his amulet?”

“I’m giving it back to him,” the king replied innocently. “More so, you are.”

He shrugged nonchalantly.

“I was getting pretty tired seeing that _ridiculous_ pocket watch of yours dangling from his neck. This suits him better, no?”

She looked back down at the amulet. Something about it was different, but she could not place what. It made her anxious, knowing that the king had had it in his possession.

“What have you done to it?” she accused.

Castiel laughed.

“You ask that with _such_ conviction!”

Meg remained sombre.

“Oh, come now, Meg,” said the king, laughing again. “It won’t _hurt_ him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried!” the demon argued. “I just—“

“You just what?” Castiel looked at her pityingly.

“You know, Meg,” he said after a moment, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’d grown to care for this boy.”

Meg folded her arms.

“Don’t be foolish.”

“Foolish…” repeated Castiel amusedly, “yes… We all know demons don’t have it in them to care about _anyone_. But even if they did,” he said, stepping closer, “do you really think the Righteous Prince could ever like a repulsive, dirty little thing like you?”

Meg shifted in her boots.

“Well, he said I was…” her voice drifted off, too embarrassed to finish.

“What?” Castiel demanded.

The stubborn, sanctimonious voice in her head spoke for her:

_A good person._

But she was never going to say that out loud, not to the king. Meg sighed.

“Forget it.”

“You’ll give him back that amulet,” Castiel ordered, his voice stern, “if it’s the last thing you ever do.”

Meg sighed again.

“Yes, your Highness.”

Castiel looked at her disapprovingly; he was not enjoying Meg’s flippancy. There were only few in the labyrinth that did not treat him with an almost sickly reverence, and for the most part it did not bother him. But Meg’s attitude, it was not abiding with Castiel. Not today.

“Don’t underestimate me, childe,” he said threateningly. “I own this world; I see everything.”

He smiled, then, a smirk without kindness. He walked closer to Meg and lifted up her chin with a ringed finger.

“Do you remember Lucifer?” he asked tauntingly, enjoying the look in her eyes. “He was our king, and I trapped him in a cage under the ground to rot.”

Castiel removed his hand, and looked down at her grandly.

“I am more powerful than anything you’ve ever known.”

Meg stared back at him without blinking, her eyes a sweet, twinkling brown—her own silent rebellion. Of course she remembered Lucifer. He was a true king. _Her_ king. The only memories she had of him were ones that filled her with joy, the only thing that stopped her succumbing to complete, reckless insanity. She had not been the outcast she was now when Lucifer had ruled the world. She and her family had served him with as much honour as a demon had possible, and in return, they had been rewarded. She had loved the old king—more than the usurper Castiel could ever know.

That was why she needed Dean. That was why she so badly needed him to win.

“Dean’s powerful, too,” she said, and Castiel’s eyes flared with rage.

“What did you say?”

Meg answered with passivity,

“Nothing, Lord.”

Castiel had had enough. He grabbed Meg by the cuff of her jacket and pulled her towards him roughly, their foreheads almost touching.

“Listen closely, demon,” he spat, “you make _one_ mistake, and I will make sure you are punished for it for the rest of eternity. Do I make myself clear?”

He let her go, and Meg smiled unkindly.

“Crystal.”

“Good,” he said; dissatisfied, but remaining calm. “Now go.”

“Your Grace.” Meg nodded her head simply, a patronising attempt at a bow.

As she turned to leave, a thought struck Castiel, and he smiled.

“Oh, and Meg?” he called.

She turned around.

“Yes?”

He took a step towards her, the smile still on his face. It made Meg shudder.

“If you ever use those… feminine charms of yours on the boy,” he said cruelly, looking her up and down with distaste. “I _will_ know about it. If he ever touches you, or kisses you, or sticks a finger up your cunt, I will know about it.”

He walked closer.

“If anything happens between you two, I will trap your worthless soul in the Pool forever. With nothing but your fear, and your misery, and your… _feminine charms_ ,” he repeated mockingly, “for company…”

Meg did not meet his gaze; she looked down at her black boots and cursed him silently.

“And the souls of the Pool do not take kindly to strangers,” the king continued, his voice full of malice. “They will hunt you, and hurt you, and take out all their anger, and their loneliness on you… again, and again.”

Castiel laughed, and Meg willed herself to remain indifferent. She would never let him know that he got to her, even though he had always known exactly how to do it.

“Often,” he went on, enjoying himself, “you will beg for death, but it will not come, and then you will have regretted— _ever_ —disobeying the orders of your king, who had offered you clemency, even though you had always been a defiant little whore.”

Castiel looked at her with pure, unadulterated hatred. After a moment, his composure recovered.

“I am a just king,” he said, and his voice was calmer, “and I have given you a chance to earn my forgiveness. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Meg finally looked at him.

“I understand, my king,” she said resolutely, standing tall. “I understand perfectly.”

* * *

The steel faces of the door knockers looked at Dean with stunned amusement.

“You’re Dean Winchester,” the knocker on the left said, his voice in complete awe.

“And you’re a talking head…” said Dean, studying it wearily, “attached to a door… with a knocker through your ears.”

“What?” asked the knocker loudly.

“Thre’s no pont taling to Hrry,” mumbled the knocker on the right, his worlds garbled and unclear. “He’s as def as a pst.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” scolded the one on the left.

“I’m nt taking wth my muth ful!” argued the second one.

Dean chuckled at the sight.

“Man,” he said, “you two must have _really_ pissed off Castiel to end up like that.”

The left door looked at him quizzically.

“What was that?”

“I said,” started Dean.

“Dean, please,” interrupted Bobby, “let’s not humour them. They give me the creeps.”

The right door knocker looked at them in offence.

“I herd tht!”

“Ed!” his partner scolded. He turned his eyes to address Dean. “Take his knocker out, would you?”

“Um,” deliberated Dean, turning towards the knocker named Ed. He tentatively put his hands toward the knocker’s mouth and began to pull at the ring.

“Come on,” he said, struggling to get it out. After a few tugs, it sprung loose from the steel mouth and fell on to the floor by Dean’s feet.

Immediately the knocker let out a sigh of relief. He began to open and close his mouth, spreading it widely into a strained smile.

“It is so good to get that thing out!” he said, his voice finally clear. “Thank you, Righteous Prince, saviour of souls.”

“You’re welcome,” Dean laughed.

The knockers looked at him a moment, no longer speaking. Silence filled the air, and Dean could not help but stare back at them uncomfortably.

“Skinnier than I imagined,” said Harry suddenly, breaking the silence.

Ed began to laugh.

“Exactly what I was thinking!”

Dean let their words register, and then stifled the urge to groan. He had already come across one infuriating double-act in the labyrinth; he had no time to meet another.

“Guys,” he said, unwilling to encourage them further, “I’m gonna stop you there. You,” he said, pointing to the right knocker. “Ed, is it? The place I’m going is through… er, you,” he finished awkwardly. “So, I’m going to need you to open.”

“Deal,” Ed nodded. “Knock, and the door will open.”

Dean shrugged. He closed his fist and knocked loudly three times. He waited, but the door remained shut.

“Why isn’t it doing anything?” he asked the doors.

Ed sighed.

“You have to use the knocker, genius.”

“Oh,” said Dean, bending down to pick it up from the floor.

“Wait,” Ed said, realising what he had just allowed to happen. “No. No. I don’t want that thing back in my mouth!”

Harry could sense his friend’s protests.

“He doesn’t want his ring back in his mouth, eh?” he said amusedly. “Can’t say I blame him.”

Dean shrugged, and looked up at Ed apologetically. He fitted the knocker back in the steel head’s mouth.

“Sorry,” Dean said.

“Tht’s all rght,” mumbled Ed, “I’m ued t it.”

He knocked again, using the knocker this time. After a moment, the door swung open slowly. Dean and Bobby stepped through.

Gone were the thin paths and dry walls. They were now in a forest, full of dense trees and mossed, soft ground.

“Well,” breathed Dean. “I think it’s safe to say we’re definitely in a different part of the labyrinth. It doesn’t even look like a labyrinth anymore.”

“Good,” sparked Bobby. “All those turnings were giving me vertigo.”

Dean chuckled and began to walk.

Just as the door was about to close, a foot wedged itself between it, leaving the door open ajar. The figure waited until the pair’s voices had become muffled by distance, and then he quietly let himself through.

“Zachariah,” he heard a whisper from behind him. “Zachariah. Whatever you’re planning on doing, I’d suggest you stop immediately.”

The half-soul smirked, and continued walking.

He had been following Dean since his regrettable escape from the oubliette. _That demon bitch_ , he thought. If Meg had not snook in, the Righteous Prince would have surely been torn apart by the wretched monsters that lived in those dark, forgotten tunnels. Zachariah had counted on it—and Meg’s arrival had soured his plans momentarily.

The half-soul placed a hand to the gash in his throat the prince had left him. He winced. In order to quell the bleeding, Zachariah had had to rip the sleeve of his beloved suit to wrap around his neck. The blood had already begun to seep through, leaving streaks of drying blood on his chest, all the way down past his knees.

He was going to get Dean for marking him. Nobody wronged Zachariah and got away with it; it was just his way. The prince had wounded his pride, and Zachariah was going to do e _verything_ in his power to stop Dean from getting to Castiel’s kingdom. In a way, it made him Castiel’s most loyal servant; even more so than the king’s blithering, idiotic demons, who were sworn to Castiel by magic as ancient as the world itself. Yes, he thought. He would be rewarded for this. Zachariah smiled as he thought of the prizes the king would give him once Dean had failed. One prize in particular brought him the most excitement. He was sure that if he asked it of Castiel, the king would give it to him: Mary Winchester. The Mother of Fire. He had heard tales of her beauty, and what better way to torture the prince by parading his own mother as Zachariah’s devoted, obedient trophy?

He had almost caught up with Dean, now. He slunk behind a tree trunk and watched them carefully. Alastair had already done him a favour by getting rid of Meg, but now the prince had found another companion to show him the way—and Zachariah couldn’t have that.

He knew he had to get closer. He had to time it perfectly; there was no room for error. The half-soul lurked towards them, shrouding himself by the cover of branches.

Zachariah had acquired a particular skill set whilst being in the labyrinth. He realised, not long after he had arrived there, that he had a sharp eye for the things that others were too oblivious to notice. Once he had gotten over his hatred of Castiel for keeping him in his godless world, Zachariah had developed a twisted sort of respect for him. He appreciated Castiel’s imagination, his attention to detail when making the maze. The king had placed many doors, many short-cuts, puzzles and traps within his realm. To lesser beings, these things came across to them invisible, but Zachariah found that he was able to use them to his advantage. That’s what caught Castiel’s attention in the first place; the reason Zachariah was made into a half-soul.

With nothing but time on his hands, Zachariah had explored and overcome every one of Castiel’s traps and detours, until he felt he knew the labyrinth better than he knew himself. That’s why he was sure that the part of the labyrinth that Dean was in now, held many secrets that only he could decipher.

The half-soul settled behind the trunk of a thick tree that went high up into the murky clouds. He picked up a fallen branch that lay next to him and threw it forwards. It landed, loudly, against the trunk of another, and cracked in two. The noise made Dean turn around.

“What was that?” he asked.

With that, Zachariah pulled at a branch that hung limply from the tree he hid behind, and the ground opened up around Bobby’s feet. Within a second, the man had fallen through it, and the mossy floor had already grown back in on itself. Dean turned back around, and, in seeing that he was alone, began to call Bobby’s name.

After a few minutes, he could hear Dean becoming hysterical. He kept calling for the soul, screaming his name again and again. It was music to Zachariah’s ears.

Dean was searching wildly around the area, and the half-soul knew it would be a bad idea if he lingered any longer, no matter how much he enjoyed paying witness to the boy’s anguish.

He crept towards another tree, traced the oak with his pudgy fingers to check it was the right one. He pushed lightly, and the tree began to open, revealing to Zachariah another part of the labyrinth. He would see Dean again soon, and he knew exactly what he was going to do with him.

Zachariah walked through the door and closed it behind him, grinning at the sound of Dean’s hopeless cries.

* * *

Dean’s paranoia was overcoming him, crippling him into dust. He had searched everywhere for Bobby, screamed his name until his throat was raw. It had been to no avail; the man was nowhere to be found. The only choice Dean had was to go to the demon’s fort alone—continue his quest no matter what. But that was easier said than done. The labyrinth was a wretched place, and in it he heard voices, footsteps. Dean could feel eyes on him; watching him hungrily from behind the cloaks of shadow.

His paces quickened, until he was practically in a run. The trees surmounted him, their branches turning into arms that tried to grab him, tear him into a thousand pieces. He felt his eyes blurring as he ran through the forest. He didn’t even know if he was running straight anymore. He didn’t stop; he swore there was something with him, waiting to attack. He looked behind him, desperate for a sign. He needed to prove to himself that he wasn’t going crazy.

He landed into something—hard. Dean made a noise of shock and frustration, almost falling backwards. As he looked up, he saw him—smiling at him in robes as dark as death.

“Hello, Dean,” said Castiel.

Dean stared. The king looked beautiful. Beautiful and wicked. He could not look away.

“You,” Dean whispered, aghast.

“Surprised to see me?”

Dean’s fists clenched. He was right; he had been followed, watched by the imposter who coined himself a king. Castiel had something to do with Bobby’s disappearance; he just knew it.

“Where’s Bobby?” he asked forcibly. His voice strained from shouting.

Castiel merely smiled.

“I don’t know,” he said sweetly, looking through Dean to his very core. “You really shouldn’t lose things so easily.”

Dean took a step forward, his fists still clenched.

“You’re a son-of-a-bitch, did you know that?”

“Actually,” Castiel pondered, “my mother was a lovely woman. Quite like yours.”

Dean looked at him fiercely. Mary’s face flickered in his mind, and he was stilled.

“Don’t talk about her.” He spoke in a threatening whisper. “I know she’s here. You’ve taken her from me, just like you took Sammy.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. He took a step towards the prince; started to circle him like a vulture would its prey.

“I didn’t take your mother, Dean,” the king said amusedly.

“Don’t you remember what happened?” he asked, circling closer, his voice barely a whisper. “The heat on your skin? The smoke…” he breathed, putting a finger to Dean and letting it fall lazily down his chest. “How it caressed your lungs and choked you?”

Dean grabbed his knife.

“I’m gonna kill you!” he said, thrashing the dagger at the king.

Castiel took a hold of his arm, and as easily, shook the knife from Dean’s grasp so it fell to the floor in a loud, piercing shatter.

“Are you sure?” he asked, smiling.

The king had stopped circling him, and their eyes were levelled.

“Every time we meet, you’re captivated,” Castiel said, and he still had his hand on him. “You can’t take your eyes off me, even now.”

Dean swallowed.

“You are so full of shit.”

Castiel let go of him, and edged his head closer.

“I can hear your heart beating,” he said softly. “It’s so loud.”

He was right. Dean’s heart was banging in his chest—thunderous, incapacitating.

“Dean,” Castiel purred. “Don’t you wonder why? You should _hate_ me.”

Dean willed himself to speak.

“I do,” he said weakly.

“No.” Castiel shook his head. “You want to, but you don’t.”

He smiled.

“You cling so desperately to a hatred you feel like you should have, but you just can’t quite grasp it.”

He broke Dean’s gaze, and began to circle him again. Dean felt so small, like he could disappear at any moment.

“Hate is a powerful thing, Dean,” Castiel continued. “I have felt it. It is what feeds my labyrinth.”

He stopped abruptly, and Dean’s breath caught in his throat. Castiel stared him down, shrinking Dean into nothing.

“You come here, to my home,” he said, and his voice was like velvet. “You try to be engulfed by it, but you can’t. Don’t you wonder why?”

The king stepped closer.

“I can show you why.”

Castiel stared at Dean’s lips for a moment, and licked his own gently. He began to close the space between them, ever so slowly. Every part of Dean’s body told him to run, to hit him—anything, but he remained as solid as stone. Castiel was so close now, he could feel his breath on him. The king’s eyes were piercing and familiar, as if he had stared into them a thousand times. Dean could feel himself disappearing. He was so still, and so ready. He closed his eyes.

Finally, Castiel kissed him.

The touch of his lips made Dean’s world stop turning. The warmth, the lightness of it, Dean felt like he had waited for this moment for years. He abandoned everything then, his body sinking against Castiel as he kissed him back. After a moment, Castiel faltered. He brushed his lips against Dean’s cheek and against his ear.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, almost teasingly. Dean felt Castiel’s arms around him, brushing through his hair and making him shiver in a thousand different places. His instincts had all but disappeared. For that moment, they were not enemies. Dean was entranced, captivated, and he realised: so very willing.

“No,” he whispered in a sigh, and Castiel put his lips back on his. They remained like that for a second, soft and delicate, almost shy. The king cupped his hands around Dean’s face and pressed his lips harder; the kiss becoming faster, hungrier.

“Open your mouth,” Castiel groaned, his voice low and breathless. The sweetness of Castiel’s tongue met Dean’s until both their lips were wet. Dean held on to Castiel’s hair, their legs entwined as the king pushed him roughly against a tree. Dean moaned into Castiel’s mouth, his whole body hardening at the closeness of their touch. Dean had kissed a lot of people in his life, but never like this. Whenever he had been physical with someone, he had never been able to escape a dreading sense of detachment, like it wasn’t really him—as if he was watching it happen to someone else entirely. Even with Lisa, who he had secretly imagined he might have a future with, had never filled him the way Castiel was doing now. Dean was awake, he was truly there, and he craved Castiel—kissed him like it was his lifeline. Everything he had done, everyone he had killed, it was all meaningless. The only thing that mattered now was Castiel, his hardness pushing into him, his hands on him, his force, and his warmth.

And then Dean opened his eyes.

He was alone, his body slumped against the trunk of a dying tree. His heart was beating manically, his breaths coming quick and shallow. A moment ago, he had had his arms around Castiel’s neck, kissing him like one breath apart would have killed them both. He looked around him then, desperate for the sight of something, someone for it all to make sense. He placed a finger to his lips; they were dry and throbbing, as if they had been bit into. He looked down, and realised his jeans were resting tightly against his crotch.

Dean closed his eyes; a mix of both shame and nausea rising in him. He hadn’t even remembered falling asleep. Even so, in all his life, he had never had a dream be so vivid before. He was ashamed. For the first time since being in the labyrinth, he was truly alone, and it had only taken him a second to fall so blindly. Castiel was his enemy. He was going to kill him. Kill him… or kiss him.

Dear God, he wanted so badly to kiss him.

“Stop it!” he screamed, and banged his head back against the tree. Dean stood up and looked around him wildly. There was no one there. He wished Bobby was with him; he missed Meg. He just needed someone, anyone to distract him from the thoughts that had been creeping in his head the minute he had first laid eyes on the king.

The silver glitter of his knife caught his eye. He saw it, lying there on the ground a few yards from where he had been sleeping. Dean walked over to it slowly, picking it up and running a finger down the blunt edge. He looked around him.

“Castiel?” he said out loud, his voice echoing through the trees. “Castiel, are you there?”

He half expected the king to appear, his blue eyes gleaming as he came and took him again, but there was only silence. Dean picked his bag up from the floor and put it over his shoulder. He looked behind him falteringly, waiting. He wanted to say the king’s name again, but he stopped himself. Dean sighed, and began to walk through the dim-lit forest, through the dead trees that seemed to whisper to him, whisper things that shamed him to hear.

* * *

Castiel sat on the edge of his bed, breathing quickly. He could still feel Dean’s skin beneath his fingertips. His lips were still wet from the kiss.

It had been so hard for him to stop. For a second—only a second, Castiel had allowed himself to become lost completely.

He had never expected the spell to work so strongly. Not at the beginning, not from their first meeting since uttering those strange, beautiful words. He’d anticipated tension, a stolen look. Goosebumps, perhaps. It hadn’t even been his plan to kiss the boy. No, that would have come later. But seeing him, standing there; Dean’s heartbeat fluttering and the boy close to breathless, Castiel could not stop himself.

It had been years since he had kissed someone. It had never bothered him before, for there was no one in his vile cesspool of a kingdom that was even close to deserving. He had spent the last centuries preparing for the brothers’ arrival, planning and articulating his plan to overcome them. Castiel had had no time for anything else.

But now the brothers were here. Dean was here, and he was better than Castiel’s crystal had ever prepared him for. He was so beautiful, so perfect, and even with the spell just starting to take hold, he had already given himself to Castiel ever so deliciously... The king had allowed himself to forget the plan, only for a moment, so he could enjoy Dean’s taste, the sounds he made when Castiel kissed him harder. It made him realise just how much he had missed it; the touch of another person. The hot purr of their breath on him, their body surrendering as they gave in.

Castiel wasn’t thinking about just anyone now. The king shivered as he recalled the feel of Dean’s hands on him, refusing to let go.

 _That couldn’t have just been the spell_ , Castiel thought.

The king shook his head.

“Get a fucking grip,” he said to himself, throwing his thoughts away. He stood up.

Dean was nothing, nothing but a game to be played. His plan was going exactly how it was supposed to, so Castiel needed to follow it exactly—rigidly, meticulously—or his rule would be over. He would not allow himself any more spontaneity. The kiss had been a reckless thing to do.

He refused to lose himself again. He just couldn’t.

As Castiel walked back to the throne room, he could feel a sinking feeling in his soul. It told him that things were different. That his grip on the world was beginning to loosen. That something in him was changing, breaking apart—that he was no longer the same.

 _And you never will be again_ , a voice said, and Castiel had to stop himself from trembling.


	13. The Father

It had been a long and lonely mile; the world around Dean was silent, and the trees had parted to reveal a dusty, forgotten trail. A sick feeling had settled itself in the pit of Dean’s stomach. It was dull and constant, and it was a feeling that had become most familiar during his time in the labyrinth.

Dean no longer walked with the knife in his bag. He needed to hold it, tightly in his hand, so he could kill anyone—anything, at a moment’s notice. He could not trust the silence anymore. It deafened him: echoes of creatures that walked on walls, men with eyes as black as night, friends lost along the way, and a king with a beautiful face and a heart made of stone.

He kept walking. Eventually dirt turned to sand, and the air began to feel warm and breezy against his face. This place seemed different from the rest of the labyrinth, separate, as if it was not so vigilantly ruled by the man in the guarded castle. Dean walked up a hill, letting the sand seep into his shoes. He stopped when he reached the peak. Down below him was a structure of golden rock, grand and beautiful, but very old. Although it was only the size of Dean’s hand from where he stood, it made him feel very small. He did not want to go towards it, but his feet moved regardless.

The structure became bigger, until at last it towered over him, blocking out the sun and cloaking him in shadow. Dean approached it slowly, his boots sinking with every step. The doors to the fort were wide open, and Dean walked through them wearily. Inside was more stone, carved circularly to resemble a colosseum. He was now in the home of an enemy, and his dagger seemed to vibrate in his hand. It knew it would be seeing blood very soon.

Something made Dean look up. It was a man up above him, sitting regally against a stone seat.

“Welcome to my home, Dean,” the man said pleasantly. “It’s an honour to meet you in person at last.”

Dean stared up at him, his brows knitting together. Something about him seemed familiar.

“I understand you’re here to collect something,” the man continued, a smile on his face.

“If you want to put it that way.”

The demon chuckled, and got up from his seat. He pondered where he stood a moment, and then jumped down to Dean’s level. The thud of his landing shook the walls, and dust from the stone simmered like smoke around them.

The demon was close enough to touch now. He grinned at Dean with a face aged but handsome, and with eyes that shone a brilliant yellow. They were a curious sight to behold, and Dean couldn’t help but stare.

“My, my, my, you look like you have been through hell and back, my boy, a far cry different than the handsome devil I remember from topside.”

His words were strange, and his tone cruel and confusing. The demon only laughed.

“Children,” he addressed the fort loudly, “where are your manners? Come out from the shadows and give Azazel and our Righteous Prince the audience we deserve!”

Slowly, figures emerged from behind the golden stone and uncovered themselves above them. They were men and women of similar ages, sombre and battle-worn, hungry yet unified. They looked down at their master and the prince in tranquil stance, so calm and still they could have been statues carved from the walls.

“Who are they?” Dean asked, trying to study each of their faces.

“They are my children,” Azazel said lovingly, “and I am their father. They have been eager to meet you for many years, Dean. You see, they want to see you prove yourself, to see if you’re really the man the prophecy says you are.” He lowered his voice and edged his head closer. “I, however, know exactly the kind of man you are. You have that same look to you that I have seen in so few others.”

Dean swallowed nervously.

“And what look is that?”

“The look of a man who has tasted the kind of death that only the thick flames of fire can leave.”

His yellow eyes seemed to flicker as he said this, as if there was a fire burning behind his very skin.

“I _love_ fire, you see,” he whispered intently. “Everything about it. The heat, the colours, the way it climbs and dances like it has a mind of its own. I love fire, and I know those that have been touched by fire. You are one of those people, Dean.

“Tell me,” he said, circling him, “did you think you were going to die in that house? Did you feel yourself burning from the inside out, your whole body consuming that hot, thick sweetness until you could no longer breathe?”

Dean’s grip on his dagger began to tighten.

“Can’t say I remember thinking all that clearly.”

“Yes,” Azazel nodded, “your biggest concern was saving your mother and brother, wasn’t it? You were very valiant that day, Dean.”

Dean looked at the demon strangely.

“How do you know so much about it?” he demanded. “Did Castiel tell you?”

The yellow-eyed man shook his head, and laughed loudly.

“No. I watched it happen with my own eyes.”

Dean shuddered.

“You were there?”

“Oh, I was _everywhere_ , sunny boy!” Azazel grinned elatedly, his voice so loud it echoed throughout the fort.

“I… was the fire. I was the hand that set it.”

His yellow eyes gleamed as he spoke the next words slowly, a cruel sweetness, a dark tone of triumph:

“I burned down your house and killed your pretty mother, and every second of it filled me with _joy_.”

Dean stared. His body halted. His thoughts disappeared. He felt the dagger begin to vibrate, begging to kill again.

He swung wildly at the demon, his body possessed once more with the instinct to destroy. Azazel dodged the tip barely, throwing his body backwards and recovering on bended knees. He stood up and laughed again.

“I’ll kill you!” Dean screamed, ready to lunge with the dagger once more. He groaned in pain and surprise as he felt a punch to the back of his head. He fell heavily to the ground and dropped the knife. The demon that had struck him picked it up and threw it towards Azazel, who caught it with a swift hand.

“Oh, but you still haven’t heard the best of it!” Azazel said, standing over him with a grin on his face. “After I set that fire, I never left! In fact, I made myself quite comfortable among that little family of yours. ‘Guilty men don’t cry,’ Dean, do you remember?”

Dean’s eyes widened, his pain suddenly forgotten. Of course he remembered; those were the words his father had said to him the day of Mary’s funeral.

“Oh, what a sorry man your father was,” Azazel continued, grabbing a hand at Dean and pulling him up roughly. “So _easy_ to break, how quick it took to climb inside his head. John was in there all along, forced to watch the abandonment of his second-born and the abuse of his first. Oh, what a sweet, sweet torture. He never stopped loving you, and you forsaked him. If only you’d been a little more forgiving… the poor man had just lost his wife, his home! You should have been there for him. Then perhaps the real John might have been able to break through...”

Azazel’s voice trailed off, and instead he began to laugh at Dean, slowly and quietly as the realisation set on the boy’s tired face. His head began to hurt as his vision became dark and cloudy. He could barely stand.

All those months… all those months he’d spent hating his father for the pain he had put him through. All those months he’d spent hating him because he blamed himself for the monster John had become. And now, to be told that it wasn’t true, that John hadn’t changed at all, but had spent all that time trapped in his own body as the demon Azazel wore his face… it was too much.

Azazel’s laugh got louder, and the sounds of his Children becoming more agitated filled the fort until it was all Dean could hear.

“You’ve come to collect from me, but I will not deliver,” Azazel said, his laughter subsiding. “No, my plans for Sam are too important.”

“Sam?” Dean was brought back to reality by the sound of his brother’s name.

“Sammy’s special. I’m sure you would have realised that if you hadn’t spent so long resenting him. I’ve been watching your brother since the day he was born. He’s everything the prophecy says; the Damned Prince, the true leader of demons. He is my king, and I will do _anything_ to make that happen.”

Dean willed his head to stop spinning. He had to be strong in the face of this man. He hated him. He hated him more than he hated Castiel.

“You will not have my brother.”

Azazel only shrugged wickedly.

“Don’t you see? I’ve already got him. He’s here, isn’t he? The only thing standing in my way is you.

“Shall I wear John’s face once more?” he asked, and at that moment, Azazel’s features changed to that of the dark, disheveled appearance of his father. “You should see something familiar before I destroy you.”

Dean stumbled backwards. It had only been a short while since he had last seen John Winchester, but looking at him now, it was like staring at a ghost.

“You let your mother die.” his father said, walking slowly towards him. “You were too weak to save her!”

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head wildly.

“You’re not real!”

When he opened his eyes again, John was still there, approaching him slowly, his eyes brimmed with hatred.

“I am real,” he said darkly. “I’m the only thing you’ve got left.”

John raised his hand and smacked Dean across the face—hard—throwing him to the ground.

He picked Dean up again, only to hit him again and again—in the face, in the stomach, punching, kicking, tearing.

He let go of Dean eventually; his body slumping to the floor in a lifeless heap.

“Fight back, boy,” he heard John say, though it was muted by the sound of his heartbeat banging in his ears. “Fight back!”

He couldn’t. This hadn’t been the first time John had hit him. As he lay on the ground, the taste of blood filling in his mouth, all he could do was stare up at his father blindly. For a moment, he forgot where he was.

John sunk to the floor and raised the dagger to Dean’s throat.

“Would it kill its own master if I willed it to?” he questioned. “It has tasted so much death I fear it would betray you to taste some more. Righteous blood… oh, it would be sweet enough, I’m sure of it. Let’s try it, shall we?”

“Father!”

A voice from behind Dean halted Azazel a moment. He looked past the boy’s broken form and glared.

“Meg.”

Dean struggled to look behind him. The demon was standing there, looking disheveled yet fierce in the doorway of the fort.

“Get away from him,” she said slowly.

Dean was overcome with a strange feeling. The last time he had seen Meg, he had been angry at her, betrayed by her disloyalty. He had come to terms with the fact that she had fled forever and would never be coming back. But he had been wrong. There she stood, breathless and beautiful and more loyal than he could give credit for.

Azazel scowled at her, his eyes darkening to their true colour.

“You order me?”

Meg strode across the fort, her fists clenched.

“I won’t let you touch him!”

The Children poised themselves, ready to attack, but Azazel raised a finger.

“You’re a silly little girl, Meg, always have been. Stop this foolishness and do your father proud, for once in your life.”

“Dean, now!”

Dean grabbed the dagger from Azazel’s grasp. It sunk into him in sickening impact, the sound of blade going through flesh and hitting hard bone. Azazel looked down at the knife, and then back up at Dean. He smiled manically, placed a grip on the handle of the knife, and pulled it out very slowly. He got up, and the red of his blood ran from the wound until he was standing in a pool of his own insides. His Children laughed at the sight, and began shifting from their positions from the upper level. Some climbed, others jumped down into the arena, and walked slowly behind their father, their black eyes just as hungry as his yellow ones.

“No!” Meg screamed, and she lunged at Azazel, knocking him down and trying to pry the dagger out of his hands.

“Dean!” she managed through struggled breaths. “Use the arrow! The arrow, Dean!”

He had been so used to killing with the ancient dagger that he had almost forgotten the weapon that had been leant to him from Tessa, the daughter of Death.

He clumsily unveiled the bow from around his chest and pulled out an arrow from the quiver on his back. He placed the arrow against the string with a shaking hand. Immediately the tip burst into flame. The Children and Azazel stared at the fire in mesmerisation. He pushed his daughter away and stood up slowly.

He still wore John’s face. He looked away from the burning arrow and into Dean, the way he used to do, before the fire that Azazel had set.

“I’m so proud of you, son,” he said, his voice sounding kind and warm and full of tears. Dean’s breath caught in his throat.

“It wasn’t your fault, what happened,” John continued, his tone trembling. “You saved your brother, and I never thanked you.

“Please, put down the arrow. We can be a family again.”

Dean’s hands shook so violently he could barely keep the arrow in place. How long had he waited to hear those words? He knew it was a trick, he knew it wasn’t real—but he let himself fall for it anyway. He was so tired of waiting, so tired of hating his father for what they had lost, that it didn’t matter that this man was an imposter, and that they were in this strange, hostile place. He needed to be forgiven, and this version of John was willing to do that.

His fingers trembled, and the arrow fell from the string.

“Dean, no!” cried Meg. At that moment, the Children reached her, and began to surmount her as she struggled on the ground, screaming and tearing at them with her nails.

He watched as Meg and the demons fought, watched as her form was beaten and torn. She had come back to him even though she hadn’t had to. She was sacrificing herself, just like Chuck and Becky had done. He couldn’t let that happen again.

He looked into the eyes of his father, who was smiling at him softly. Dean only shook his head. He would prove to Azazel what kind of man he really was.

He raised the arrow once more, letting the tip blaze red with fire.

John looked at him, terrified.

“You wouldn’t kill your own dad, would you?”

Dean pulled his arm back.

“You’re not my father,” he said, and let go.

The arrow flew into Azazel’s chest, quicker than a heartbeat. John’s face disappeared and he was once again the demon with the bright yellow-eyes. Azazel made a noise; a strangled, rapturous sound that was somewhere between pain and elation. His body burst into flames, and for the last few moments, all anyone could hear was the sound of his laughter before he turned to dust.

The Children got off Meg, who was ravaged and bloody. They did nothing but stare at Dean from where they stood. Meg got up clumsily and ran to Dean’s side, staring at the little mountain of ash in the middle of the room.

She looked at Dean, and handed him the knife with an apologetic look on her face. Dean took it and looked back at her strangely. Her face was covered in dirt, and blood was dripping from the side of her mouth. He reached up a hand and brushed it away softly.

“You came back,” he said.

“I never should have left,” she replied.

He looked towards the ash, the only thing remaining of the demon Azazel. She had known all along that he was coming here to kill him, her own flesh and blood, but she had never said a word. He had no idea how she must have been feeling in that very moment.

He hugged her awkwardly. It was over almost as quickly as it had begun, but when they pulled apart she was smiling at him, in a sad, grateful kind of way.

“Now,” she said quietly, “collect his… Use your vial.”

Dean took out the glass vial from the knapsack that leant against his side. It was already filled a quarter of the way with the blood he had collected from inside Death’s courtroom. He walked slowly towards the ash, bent down, and grabbed a handful of it with a grubby fist. He poured the ash into it and placed the wooden cork back on the top. He placed the vial inside his bag and stood up slowly, realising Azazel’s army of demons were still stood watching him from around the fort.

“Meg...?” he asked quietly, backing away to where she stood. “Why are they staring at me?”

“Because you’re their new father,” she said, without a hint of irony.

“Father,” they said in unison, and sunk to their knees, bowing their heads in servitude.

“They’re yours to command,” came Meg’s voice beside him. “They’ll do anything you ask of them.”

“Like help me kill Castiel?”

At that moment, one of the Children stood up. He was tall, and struck a surprising resemblance to the demon Dean had just killed. He walked over to Dean, and bowed again, though his eyes did not leave Meg’s face.

“Tom,” she said through stricken breath.

“Sister,” he replied solemnly, neither with love or resentment.

Dean raised his brow, trying to count the demons in the room.

“How many kids does this guy have…?”

“We are the originals,” Tom interrupted. “Azazel’s true children. The rest are merely tools to make up his army.”

Dean shifted awkwardly.

“Sorry about, breaking up the family and all…”

Tom ignored him, and put a hand in his coat pocket.

“This weapon belonged to Azazel,” he said, pulling out a small, sphere shaped bottle and handing it to Dean. “It’s yours now.”

“Fire Breath,” he read, the label almost faded.

“One sip is enough,” was all Tom replied.

“Your next destination is the Tower,” he continued, his voice deep and unfeeling. “Walk past the fort and travel over three hills. Once you’ve passed the third, walk right until you reach two entrances. The one on the left will take you where you want to go.”

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “What will you do once I leave?”

“Nothing,” said Tom. “Not unless our Father has a command for us?”

Meg poked Dean softly in his side.

“Dean,” she whispered, “we need them.”

He did not have to be told twice.

He looked over at Tom and the rest of the Children, who were watching him intently.

“Wait for me to call you,” he ordered, “I’ll need you with me when I reach Castiel’s city.”

The demons bowed their head, and Tom nodded.

“As you wish.”

Dean and Meg began to walk away, before they heard a voice from behind them call out.

“Azazel told us he would never die.”

Meg looked back at her brother, an unreadable expression on her pretty, bruised face.

“Demons lie, Tom.”

* * *

Sam was bored and teary-eyed, having awoken from his nap. Castiel tried bouncing the child on his knee, but the boy was not relenting. He bashed his little fists against Castiel’s chest and wailed indignantly.

“My Lord?” a voice interrupted Sam’s winging. It was his servant.

“Yes, Crowley?” Castiel asked, struggling to keep a grasp on the fidgeting child.

His servant approached him carefully, a look on his face the king had not seen before.

“May I speak to you for a moment? As your friend, and not your servant?”

“Of course,” frowned Castiel. “What is it you’d like to say?”

Crowley sighed, bowing his head.

“I know what you’re planning to do.”

The king smirked.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Crowley.”

“That amulet,” spoke the servant, his tone blunt. “If Meg gives it to him—”

“She will,” Castiel finished, his jaw tensing with irritability.

Crowley noticed his master’s darkening mood, but continued despite himself.

“I came to tell you that I think you’re making a mistake.”

“A mistake?” the king questioned.

“If you go there,” Crowley said with troubled warning, “he will ruin you.”

Castiel looked at him with hardened eyes.

“Choose your next words carefully, Crowley.”

“My Lord,” the servant argued, forgetting his place. “I can’t just sit here and watch you destroy _everything_ you’ve worked for!”

Castiel stood up quickly, making Crowley jump and Sam wail.

“Who’s to say that I’m destroying anything? Am I not your king, Crowley? Am I not the soul that rose to greatness in this fucking squalor?”

Crowley sighed, and shook his head.

“You put me in this position for a reason, Castiel,” he said, sounding tired. “Because you respect my council, because I am life-or-death devoted to you. So for that reason, you deserve the truth.”

He looked into his ruler’s eyes, and for the first time in a millennia, his irises were the colour of the earth, the way they had been before Castiel had damned him to live inside his world, inside this grand, empty castle.

“My Lord, if you let it happen… he will undo you completely.”

Castiel roared in anger, pushing over the mantle that held his crystal ball. Both landed loudly on the stone ground, and the orb rolled quickly along the floor. It stopped with a thud against the wall ahead.

“Then I will relish every second of it!” the king screamed at his servant. Sam’s cries echoed and rang across the hall, so loud that even the demons outside the castle could hear them.

“Get out of my sight,” Castiel said, and Crowley walked out of the room without bowing.


	14. Kept Promises

Zachariah had watched as the flaming arrow tore into Azazel’s flesh, turning him to ashes; watched as a handful of his remains were placed into a glass vial, its contents already brimming with blood. He watched as an army of demons had bent to their knees, and bowed.

Zachariah’s teeth grit together as Dean and the demon bitch he kept so close walked out of the General’s fortress and back into the maze. He did not know where they were going, or the reason for the vial of blood and ashes. All he knew was that they weren’t going to get much further, and that it was all for nothing.

He turned back, walked a few paces. He drew a line with the tip of his shoe, and watched as the sand began to pour downwards like the inside of an hourglass. Zachariah braced himself, and jumped in.

The drop was short and the ground hard. He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging with grit. Zachariah shook the last of the sand from atop his bald head and dusted off his torn suit fervently.

He was standing at a dead-end, surrounded by a thick, tall thorn-bush that looked to last for miles. A strange compulsion overcame him, and Zachariah found himself placing a finger to the thorn to touch it. The tip broke the skin instantly, and a thick drop of blood bubbled and ran down his palm.

“It’s sharper than it looks,” came a voice from behind him.

He turned around. The demon Alastair stood a ways back from him in matted clothes that hung heavily against his brittle frame. He smiled at the half-soul, stretching the skin on his face. Their eyes followed each other as both gazes fell to the creature beside him.

A follower hung from the bush, the thorns impaling every inch of his skin. He was completely naked, apart from the spikes lacing his body like embroidery. Blood ran from the punctures and dripped on the ground. Alastair bent towards the demon, and licked his chest, letting his tongue be caught and torn by the thorns.

“Now that’s in poor taste,” said Zachariah repulsively. “Even for you, Alastair.”

Alastair ignored him. He began to walk towards him slowly, his followers ensuing behind on all fours, like a pack of dogs.

“Come to play?” he asked fondly. “My tools have always wanted to see what the inside of a half-soul looks like.”

Zachariah cleared his throat. He tried to look forbidding, but the bead of sweat that ran down his temple betrayed him.

“Tempting though that offer is,” he said, chuckling nervously. “I’ll pass, thank you.”

Alastair tilted his head playfully, but showed no sign of halting.

“Then why have you come here? My followers are hungry, and I could not deprive them such a sweet meal.”

Zachariah held out a hand.

“I was coming to parley with you,” he countered amiably. “Natural enemies though we are, I believe that if we work together, it could be beneficial for both of us.”

Alastair stopped, and so did his panting creatures.

“Is that so?” he questioned, his interest peaking. “What is it you want?”

“A private meeting with the king,” replied Zachariah sternly. “I have some things I’d like to discuss with the man, but I can’t get past that pretty little pet he has guarding the city gate. Give me your word you’ll get me through, and I’ll give you what  _you_  want.”

Alastair raised an eyebrow, his grey eyes glinting blithely.

“And what is that?”

“Two words: Dean Winchester.”

* * *

They had passed the third hill. The sun was becoming darker, and the sky was turning back into the same dirt-coloured brown as before. They were eventually met by two twists in the path, one leading right and the other leading left. Tom had told him to follow the latter; that was the one that would lead them to the Tower, where the third and last ingredient was waiting.

“Who’s the Forgotten Sister?” he asked suddenly, and Meg jumped.

“What?” she asked, clearly lost in her own thoughts.

“Chuck mentioned the Forgotten Sister,” he explained, “the one who lives in this Tower we’re going to. Not another one of your relatives, I hope.”

It was in poor taste; he knew it as soon as it had left his mouth. Meg glared at him.

“I don’t know,” she replied after a moment, and Dean thought it best not to delve any more into the issue.

They continued down the path in silence, Dean looking around him in bland interest. It was very much the same yellow-stone walls the labyrinth had been made up of before the forest, and the sandy desert of Azazel’s fort. It was not very much to look at, and each step seemed to take a lifetime.

After a while of more trodding, Meg’s mood must have lightened, because she quickened her step until her and Dean were walking in line, their footsteps matching.

“What happened to that soul,” she questioned, “the one that Alastair was torturing? Did you save him?”

“Yeah, and then I…” Dean’s voice trailed off. He felt stupid to say he lost him, like Bobby was a worn-out slipper he had just casually misplaced.

“We got separated,” he recovered, “somewhere in the woods. I have no idea where he is.”

“I’m sure he’s okay,” Meg assured from beside him. It was surprisingly kind of her to say, even though both of them know that in all likeliness, Bobby was not okay at all.

Their conversation quietened once more. He did not want to lose Meg again, and especially not in the way he had lost Bobby. He kept his pace in time with hers, hoping that his stage in the woods was the last time he was to be alone until he reached Sammy. Killing Azazel, and travelling with Meg again, had both been welcome distractions from his dream about Castiel. The thought of the king’s hands through his hair crept inside Dean’s head, latching on to it and playing itself on a loop. A shiver went through him, and he felt himself stir. Dean looked down with a start, and, realising what was happening, nervously covered himself with his hands.

“Wonderful weather we’re having, huh?” he said, willing his thoughts to shift to anything other than the ones that were currently playing in his head.

“Yeah,” replied Meg sarcastically, though thankfully she was still looking ahead of her. “If you like stale air and the colour of shit.”

They continued walking, and eventually Dean felt it safe enough to remove his hands from in front of his jeans, and let them sway lazily at his sides. He had found all of the ingredients he needed to defeat Castiel; he just needed to find one more. This nightmare could all be over soon, he could be back in the real world, and Sam could finally be safe. He did not know how he could have hated his brother before. All he wanted now was to be with him again, squeeze Sam’s fat little cheeks and hold him close and never let go. Azazel had wanted Dean to lose, because he had wanted his brother to remain in this world, and be a king. It was a strange thought, but Sam was a prince as well. Only, he was not Righteous as Dean had been described. He was Damned. His purpose was not to free the souls, but to rule over them. Demons like Azazel worshipped Sam, like the souls who had a chance of escaping worshipped Dean.

Dean frowned. Sam was just a baby. He was not what Azazel said he was, he just couldn’t be…

Dean’s thoughts were rushed back into reality when he heard a metallic bang, followed by a yelp, from beside him. A trap had emerged from the stone ground and latched itself around Meg’s foot.

“Dean!” she screamed, holding her leg in pain. “Help me!”

He grabbed at the trap, prying it open with all his strength. The claws were so sharp they dug into his hands, and blood began to fall from them and on to his sleeves. Meg pulled her foot out. It was bleeding as well, though much quicker. She let out a small sob as she tried to put weight on it, but the pain was too much. Dean grabbed her as she collapsed into him, but a dark chuckle from ahead made him look up.

“Did you like that?” the familiar voice asked. “I made it myself, just in time for your arrival.”

Molten anger rose in him as he looked into the eyes of the man before him.

“Zachariah…” he breathed, barely getting the word out. He wanted to kill him.

“I’ve got to admit, Dean,” uttered the half-soul, strolling towards him. “I was more than a little offended after our little run-in before, and then to find out you escaped the oubliette unharmed? Well, I was positively outraged.” He stopped a little ways ahead, and clasped his hands together with eagerness. “But, now I realise, it was all just leading up to one glorious moment.”

“What moment?” Dean asked him, his hands creeping into the fold of his bag, the vibration of his dagger thirsting for blood once more.

Zachariah smiled.

“This one.”

Sharp, dirtied hands appeared around him, throwing both Dean and Meg to the ground. He looked up wildly, struggling under the creatures’ savage embrace. A man stood over him then, his figure blocking out the shape of the sun. Dean was plunged into darkness, but not before he looked into the demon’s eyes, and saw the face of Alastair, smiling down at him with a hunger that was strong enough to consume the world.

* * *

The demons in Castiel’s throne room had picked up the mantle and retrieved his crystal ball without a word. A sullen, hard-faced demon had taken Sam into her arms and carried him through the door, his wails still audible from down the hall. Castiel closed his eyes, his fingers to his temple. That same headache had returned, seizing him motionless to his cold, decorated throne.

Crowley’s words swam around in his head, becoming lost and fragmented until all he could think about was the pounding against his eye. He looked at his ball beside him, its interior a cool, glacial mist. A long crack had set against the glass the shape of a river. He ran a finger down it slowly, tracing the indent. As if awoken, the mist inside began to clear, and a broken image of the prince appeared amidst it. Castiel’s finger edged across the crack, until it fell upon the boy’s damaged image. He stroked the crystal so softly he barely even knew he was doing it. The last time he had seen that face, he had been close enough to touch him, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His touch fell to Dean’s lips, and he outlined them, remembering how they had felt against his.

He stopped when he realised Dean was bleeding, that he was tied in shackles made of thorns. The image shifted, and revealed more faces in the mist—that of Meg, and Alastair, and his following of rabid animals.

His soft touch turned rigid, and another crack, as quick as lightening, marked its way across the surface.

“Alastair,” he summoned urgently, his voice low and paramount.

He could see the demon lose concentration. Alastair’s tools quivered slightly in his masterful hands, and he looked directly at Castiel through the crystal ball—but only for a moment. After a second, he regained his grip, and continued his way towards the prince.

“Alastair,” Castiel said again, “come to the castle.”

The demon could ignore him, now. That time, he didn’t even blink.

“As your king, I command you. Come to the castle.  _Now_.”

A dark shadow had been cast over the throne room; the demons inside it knew it, and they feared for their safety for whatever was about to happen.

“Don’t defy me,” the king said slowly, his tone colder than ice. “You lay  _one_  finger on that boy and you will regret it.”

But Alastair could not be swayed. He advanced on the prince, and all the broken crystal could show next was just how much his tools shone.

“Who will volunteer?” The king suddenly said, standing. “Who will volunteer to enter the labyrinth?”

His demons looked up at him, nervous, yet eager to serve.

“I want Alastair and his followers scattered. Understood?”

A scarred, short demon stepped forward, bowing.

“What of the prince?” he asked, his voice gruff.

“It’s not the prince I’m concerning you with!” shouted Castiel. “Now, will you do it?”

The demon bowed again, and edged a finger towards his friend, who stepped to his side.

“Aye, your lordship.”

Castiel watched them leave, barely blinking as the great door slammed behind them.

 _He will ruin you_ , a voice taunted him from somewhere far away.

* * *

Meg was crying silently from beside Dean, her body held down by the horde of Alastair’s demons. Dean himself did not cry, only stared Alastair down as if bravery enough could save him. Alastair liked that, the silence before the storm. But he would make him scream. He always did.

He had stripped Dean gradually, savouring every inch of skin. Once his chest was bare, Alastair had bent over, and licked Dean slowly, from the top of his naval to the tip of his chin. He tasted the dirt, the sweat, and the blood of both Dean and those he’d killed along the way. An animalistic groan erupted from deep inside Alastair. The taste of Dean had sent him into elation, the touch of his skin had awoken the creature inside him. Meg cried and begged for mercy, offered herself to him instead, but Alastair could barely hear her. Dean Winchester was more beautiful than anything he’d ever known. The kings of the past were meek in comparison, so ugly, indiscernible from the crowd of lost faces he’d destroyed with his tools.

“I can hear the king whispering in my ear,” he said, his voice so low only Dean could hear. “Calling. I know he’s going to be angry with me for ruining your pretty body, but I just can’t help myself.”

He stroked Dean’s face with the tip of his blade. A tiny slither of liquid appeared from the sheath, and dribbled down the boy’s face. He screamed at Alastair, made promises of his destruction, but to the demon, his words were barely louder than whimpers.

“My tools and I have been searching for our masterpiece for many years,” he told him. “I have grown so tired of the same, ugly faces, the same boorish cries for mercy. I have tainted my weapons with blood of the common-horde for far too long. I need to give them something real.”

Alastair put his tongue to Dean’s cheek and licked him once more, the blood of his cut filling up inside the demon’s mouth.

“I ache for you, Dean Winchester,” he breathed. “I want to drink every litre of blood. I want to birth you again, cut you into a thousand beautiful pieces. Only then will I have my masterpiece.”

Alastair drew a silent circle where Dean’s heart beat behind. That would be his reward, when all this was over.

Meg watched as the demon whispered into Dean’s ear. He had done that with her years ago, when she had been victim to the madman’s tools. The scars they had left suddenly stung under her clothes, as if the wounds had been reopened. She couldn’t let Dean be destroyed as he had almost done to her. Not now, not now they were so close. Everything was happening as it was supposed to, and this was not part of the plan.

Dean’s knapsack lay abandoned a few metres away. The dagger rested inside, waiting to be used. If she could only get it to the prince, and watch as Dean cut into the creatures as they had hoped to do to him.

The pain in her foot was abandoned. She could not be scared anymore. She kicked the creatures hard in their shins, surely breaking bone. They fell away from her, howling, and Meg dove towards the bag. She grabbed the knife, it feeling hot and heavy in her hand, and attempted to throw it to Dean. But Alastair’s creatures were upon her, and they would destroy her before she destroyed their master. Without hope, Meg thrashed wildly, until the dagger met flesh and she plunged it deep within. A noise of shock and ecstasy filled her ears. She pulled the knife out, and the demon it had welcomed fell down to the floor—lifeless. The demons looked at the fallen creature, and then back up at Meg, suddenly their purpose conflicted.

“Don’t just stand there!” called the voice of their master. “Get her!”

The followers threw themselves at her, willing to die. And they did. Meg suddenly understood what she saw when Dean would kill with the knife; the abandonment of sanity, of the logical. She was now the dagger and the dagger was her. It did not take long for the rest of the demons to die, and even Alastair, who had been so close to completing his masterpiece, had turned away from Dean to face her.

“You can slice that thing into me as many times as you like, little bird,” he said, as she approached him. “Only the prince can kill me.”

Meg took one last step forward.

“I think the rules have changed.”

Alastair could not even react, because Meg had thrown out her arm and slit a large cut across the demon’s throat. Thick, dark blood spurted out of him and showered his followers. He gurgled, tried to speak, but he was dead before he hit the ground.

Dean stared at Alastair’s body, who lay at the top of his men. Meg had killed him with Dean’s own weapon, something Chuck had not foreseen.

Before he could speak, Meg had already put up a hand to shush him.

“Someone’s coming,” she said.

He did not move fast enough, so Meg shoved him.

“Quick,” she whispered, “behind that hedge!”

Dean crouched behind the shrubbery, pulling off the thorned shackles from his wrists, as Meg faced down their second lot of assailants. There were two of them, one short and ugly, the other tall, with a faraway look to his shallow face. They weren’t dressed in rags as Alastair’s demons had been, their clothes were of leather, fur, and dark cotton; they even wore shoes.

Meg stared them down, and she could sense the demons’ trepidation in approaching her. She must have looked truly menacing—her face and body dripped with blood that wasn’t her own, and all around her lay the corpses of Alastair and his loyal, mindless slaves.

“You’re city dwellers, aren’t you?” she asked them. “What are you doing outside the gate?”

The shorter one stood upright, an attempt at cowing.

“A little birdy told us the Righteous Prince was here,” he snarled, “strapped in leather and bleedin’ out ev’ry hole.”

Meg’s fists clenched.

“The little birdy told you a lie,” she replied quietly, her tone in warning. “Now, get out of here.”

The demon let out a quick, dismissive laugh.

“Don’t tell us  _you_  killed them?”

“Would you believe it if I said I did?” she asked, looking down at the faces of the dead around her. Even now, the followers did not look at peace, for each of their expressions was one of surprise and anguish. Some of them even looked gleeful; perhaps honoured to have finally died. Alastair, however, held no such display. He still had his eyes open, and he seemed to be looking right back at Meg as she stood over him. It was harrowing.

“Tell the king his magic is dying,” she said, her attention back on the two demons. “The closer the prince gets to the city the weaker he becomes. The rules are changing in this place, can’t you feel it? Now, look into Alastair’s eyes. Do you want the same fate?”

They looked, the fear evident on their faces as the dead demon looked back at them.

“Go, then,” she warned.

The short demon snarled, but turned to leave regardless.

“We’ll be sure to give the king your friendly regards,” he said, calling back, his dimwitted friend in pursuit.

“If by that you mean a kick in the groin,” she shouted back at him, “then go for it!”

Meg did not look back at Dean straight away, but stood still for a few moments. Once she was satisfied they had gone, she ducked down past the hedge and pulled Dean up with a clenched palm.

“They’ve gone back to the city,” she said tensely. “Castiel must have sent them.”

“How did you know they were from the city?”

Meg shrugged.

“Their clothes, mostly. Those that live by the castle can enjoy certain… amenities anyone outside the city can only dream of.”

Dean deliberated for a moment.

“Why did Castiel send them?” he finally asked, unsure if he wanted the answer.

Meg only looked at him, delaying her gaze, as if she was pondering the carefulness of her response. But in the end, she only shook her head.

“Come on. You may not be bleeding out of every hole, but you still look like shit. You should rest.”

“But my brother—”

“A five minute breather isn’t going to change anything.”

She handed him his shirt and he took it gratefully, putting it back on over his aching shoulders.

“Come on.”

They walked together a moment until they came across two rocks, forming out of the ground like solid cushions. They sat down, and both of them let out a long, tired sigh.

“How many times is it I’ve saved your ass now?” Meg asked, a hint of laughter to her words.

Dean shoved her lightly.

“Pfft,” he said, then smiled. “I know why you do it.”

He put a hand to his cut cheek and stroked it mockingly. “This resistible face.”

They both laughed. Meg had a nice-sounding giggle, feminine and natural. It made Dean warm to hear it.

“You killed them,” he said, suddenly serious. “I thought I was the only one who could do that.”

“So did I,” Meg shrugged. “But it’s like I said. Castiel’s magic is weakening with every step you take. Eventually, anyone can be killed.”

“Like Castiel?”

“He could always be killed,” she countered. “But only by you. By only one way.”

“I’m sorry about before,” he said, his voice grave. “I didn’t want you to go. You were afraid, and I was too caught up in my heroics to get it.” He paused, looking at her chocolate-coloured eyes. “But now I do.”

Meg furrowed her brows slightly, and looked away. She set her gaze downwards as she nervously played with her hands.

“It’s okay,” she finally said, but Dean shook his head.

“No,” he argued kindly. “I cast you out, and then I killed your father right in front of you.”

He stopped talking, his stomach suddenly tight with nerves.

“I have no idea how you must be feeling,” he said then, trying to figure out the look in her eyes.

Meg did not reply straight away. She continued playing with her hands, looping her fingers back and forth and stroking the tips of her nails.

“Honestly?” she said after a while, finally looking at him. “I don’t know either. How did you feel when your mother died?”

Dean let out a quick breath. He had never been asked that before.

“Sad… Angry,” he reflected gawkily. “But guilty, most of all.”

“I feel none of those things,” replied Meg. “I don’t think I feel anything, except, maybe relief.”

“That he’s gone?”

She shook her head, frowning.

“That I’m not in his debt anymore.”

It was a strange answer, but Dean wanted to understand.

“Does this have something to do with your brother, about the army he had?”

Meg looked ahead of her. They were at a high-point of the labyrinth, and they could see for miles. The top of Castiel’s kingdom peaked over the trees, beckoning them—taunting them.

“We are an…  _old_  family,” she began, her voice quiet. “We have lived in this place longer than I can even calculate, even before Castiel decided to grace us with his presence. We were privileged before the uprising, so when our almighty lord trapped the old king and proclaimed himself true leader of the Lost, my father decided to use it to his advantage. We weren’t going to become one of the ‘rabble,’ as he liked to call them, we were going to live exactly the way we did before, with some… added benefits…” Her voice trailed off, and she scowled regretfully.

“My father was very pleased,” she recovered, with hardness, “when the Prophet told the king about you and your brother. He persuaded Castiel to make him General of a new army. An army that would destroy anything that tried to threaten the new king’s rule.

“The initiation process was… merciless. I watched as the mindless came forward, so desperate to be a part of this new great order, that they were willing to do anything. My brother was one of those people.”

The demon closed her eyes, haunted by the memory.

“I can’t even describe the things Azazel made them do. What he did to them. After training was over they were… different. I didn’t even recognise Tom anymore.

"You know,” she said, chuckling humourlessly, “I always knew the kind of man my father was… but seeing him like that, the things he was willing to let happen to his own son… I knew I couldn’t be a part of it.

“It wasn’t long before he asked me to join as well, but I’d made up my mind. I refused, and I ran. Castiel was… furious, to put it lightly. To disobey my father was to disobey him, and he couldn’t have that. He and Azazel had just finished a little project they’d been working on. A prison, so to speak. They called it the Pool of the Lost, and he wanted me to be the first demon to be sent there. I’d heard the stories. I didn’t want to go there, but I didn’t want to be a soldier, either.”

She paused her story, her lungs tightening in her chest. Dean sensed it, and squeezed her leg gently. They looked at each other and smiled.

“My father must have felt pity for me,” she continued, “his laughable excuse for a daughter. He told Castiel, ‘Why send her to the Pool? It will only fill up in time, and my daughter enjoys company, no matter how sour.’ So, he opted for a different kind of punishment. I was to guard the Labyrinth’s Door instead, a door that never opened, because no one ever came through. ‘Loneliness…' he said, ‘that is the true torture. Let her be an outcast to both Souls and Demons a like.’”

Dean blinked at her, his thoughts returning to their first meeting.

“So that’s what were you were doing when I arrived here…” he breathed with astonishment. “After all that time, you were still guarding the door.”

“My father knew how to punish me…” Meg affirmed sorrowfully, “but despite it all, I think he loved me in a strange kind of way. He did me a kindness by exiling me.”

“But you were alone. I must have been—”

“The first person I spoke to in a hundred years,” she interrupted, her voice cracking. “By law, you were my enemy, but… my God, I was glad to see you.”

She smiled at him, and tears ran down her muddy cheeks as fast as drops of rain. She looked so beautiful in that moment he could barely breathe.

Before either of them could stop him, he kissed Meg on her pink, bowlike mouth. When he pulled away, Meg was looking at him with widened eyes. But it wasn’t from shyness, it wasn’t from surprise—it was from pure, unadulterated fear.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she cried in a desperate whisper. Dean was about to ask why, but the ground beneath them had already begun to crumble.


	15. The Pool of the Lost

He opened his eyes, and was met with darkness.

The air was bitter cold. The ground he lay upon was damp and rough against his back.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Dean scrunched his eyes, trying to familiarise them against this new haze. Barely, he could make out the small figure of his companion pacing ahead of him, her head in her hands.

“Meg?”

She stopped, lifting her head.

“Oh,” she said, sounding both panicked and relieved, “you’re awake, finally!”

Dean’s head pounded as he lifted himself up from the ground. The air smelled damp and spoiled, like something near them was putrefying.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “Where are we?”

She looked at him hopelessly.

“Do you remember that prison I was telling you about, the one my father helped Castiel build?”

“The Pool of the Lost?” Dean’s stomach knotted at the memory of Meg’s description. “Is that where were are? But… how could this happen?”

Meg groaned at him exasperatedly, shoving him in his shoulder.

“You _kissed_ me!” she scolded.

“What?”

“That’s why we’re here! Castiel told me that if you ever kissed me, he’d send me to the Pool. I don’t know if he counted on you coming with me, though.”

Dean frowned at her, though he doubted she could see his expression in the dark.

“Why would he say that?”

She sighed.

“You haven’t figured it out by now?”

There was a small noise that sounded from far away, like a mimicking of voices, all talking over each other. Meg grabbed on to Dean’s hand, dragging him into a crouch that made his knees click.

“Shit,” she whispered, her voice alert. “They felt the ground opening. They know we’re here.”

Dean followed her eyes. There was a small ray of light a few yards ahead, and it seemed that that was what was carrying the noise in.

“Who?” he asked her slowly.

Meg swallowed, and he could hear the gulp in her throat.

“The Lost,” she said after a moment, but before Dean had a chance to ask Meg who the Lost was, a hoarse shout could be heard, closer than before.

“Quick, get behind me,” Meg ordered.

They crept slowly towards the gap of light. Dean looked over Meg, and stared through it. It was still dark outside, and the smell seemed to be wafting even stronger here. A group of six men walked into view. All of them were partially dressed and walking barefoot, their skin the same grey colour as the mist that had settled around them. They were talking again in hushed voices. There was a man at the front of the line, bigger and more menacing than the rest of them, who was pointing at various places and ordering to each.

“They’re looking for us,” Meg whispered to Dean.

“Do they know who we are?”

“Doubtful,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Either way, it doesn’t matter. We’re fresh meat, and that’s good enough for them.”

The group of men continued searching, approaching ever slowly to the gap of light. Meg and Dean urged themselves away, and cowered together in the darkness.

“What will happen if they find us?” asked Dean, his voice barely audible.

Meg only sighed.

“Use your imagination,” she replied hotly.

The voices passed outside, becoming quieter. After a few minutes, Meg lifted herself up from her perch and peered outside the gap, scanning the area outside. Eventually she was satisfied.

“They’re gone,” she said, sitting back down and allowing herself a heavy breath.

Dean looked out of the hole. All that surrounded them was that thick greying mist, drifting like smoke across the flattened ground. Strewed across were the skeletons of trees, their branches black and spindly like the legs of giant spiders, and further into the distance were high, ash-coloured rock, some in the shape of screaming faces and others like crooked mouths, twisted into grins.

“Do you know how to get out of here?” Dean asked her, staring at the rock-face, which seemed to be staring back at him with a nefarious smirk.

“Have you not been listening?” came her irritable reply. “There is no way out.”

Dean scowled, looking away from the gap to the outside. He started scouring the interior, a passage opening itself up to him. He persued the errant path blindly, holding his hands out in front of him in case he fell.

“I don’t believe that,” he said through gritted teeth. “I am so close to finding my brother. This can’t be the end.”

Murky light began to shine in on him. He was reaching the opening. Just a couple steps further…

Meg put a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around, he could finally see her face; her eyes were brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she said quietly, “this wasn’t the ending I wanted for you, either.”

He wanted to scream at her—to tell her she was wrong. How could he have gotten this far only to fail now? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to be trapped here, in this dark, foul-smelling place. Sammy needed him. He couldn’t let him down, not now, after everything he’d done to get to him.

“Hold back, boys,” a gruff voice said from beyond the cave. “I think I smell something...”

Meg grabbed at Dean, pulling him backwards into the safety of the darkness.

“Shit,” she breathed ravagely. “Move, move!”

They threw themselves under the hole they had used to spy out of, panting heavily. There was silence for a moment, as if the demons had moved on to other prey that were hiding in dark places. Dean and Meg allowed themselves a small look of relief—which quickly halted as the cover behind them was kicked away with a heavy blast. Dean covered his head as the rock bedded itself around them, a small explosion of noise and light.

When he looked up, six men were staring down at them hungrily from the shattered opening. The leader smiled at both of them, licking his lips with the tip of a blackened tongue.

“You’re new,” he rasped, and he clenched his fists.

Dean stood up, shielding Meg behind him.

“Get away from us,” he said, but his voice sounded small now that he was in the open, and faced with the challenge of six famished demons.

The leader took a long, gratifying inhale, closing his eyes and showing off his rotting teeth.

“You smell good…” he said with craving. “Both of you.”

“I get the girl first.”

One of the smaller demons had edged his way forward, his eyes burning at the sight of Meg.

The leader smacked him with the back of his hand, throwing him to the ground and making him whine like an injured dog.

“I get first round,” he raged, “I found them!”

Dean stepped forward hastily.

“You won’t touch her,” he said, and in his anger he sounded louder, more like a man.

The leader only grinned.

“That’s sweet,” he taunted. “But you’re in our home now, new fish.”

He took a step forward. So did Dean. He was feeling reckless; his heart beating wildly with the vibrations of the dagger resonating from inside his bag. The demon could not know this, however. He thought he couldn’t die.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a woman,” he said, and Dean could hear the desire in his gravelled voice. “And you,” he said, looking at Dean, “you have a pretty face. I can make you moan like one if I need to.”

These were a particular kind of monster, Dean realised. The ones that exuded their power through another type of violence. Meg was shaking behind him. He looked at her, expecting her to peek back with fear, but a hardness had settled within the darkness of her eyes—eyes that were now completely black. She was not afraid—she was furious.

“No, you won’t,” Dean said, taking his dagger out of the bag and holding it in front of him.

The Lost laughed loudly.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked blithely. “Kill me?”

“As a matter of fact, he is.”

All of them turned around at the sound of this new voice. A figure stood behind the group of demons; an older man, with grey hair covered by a dirtied Baseball cap.

“Bobby!” Dean shouted, relief washing over him at the sight of his friend.

Bobby winked at him.

“Good to see ya, Dean.”

The Lost looked from Bobby and back to Dean, studying his features, and then to the knife he was holding.

“Dean?” the leader asked, and his tone no longer mimicked with gall. “You’re the Winchester boy?”

“You’ve heard of him?” answered Bobby. “Good. Then you know what he can do.”

The leader of the band of Lost roared in anger, punching the rock of the cave with a hard-plated fist. The stone fell away as easily as water, and his followers cowered.

“He can do _nothing_ for us!” he screamed, spit spraying from his rotting mouth. “Win or lose, we stay down here. So in my eyes,” he said, seething at the prince, “he might as well lose.”

The Lost were no longer afraid. One blade and three rivals were nothing. They had fought with lesser odds and still came out on top.

“Boys…” the leader said, and the desire had returned—though it was a different kind of hunger now. “Do with the others as you please. The prince is mine.”

At once, the three demons at the back of the group pounced at Bobby. He was ready, fighting them with a new-found purpose since his rescue from Alastair. The two at the front focused their attention on Meg, who held in her hand a bit of rock with a pointed edge. She threw it, a perfect shot—wedging itself into one of the demon’s eyes and popping it. They forced themselves on her, but she was stronger—she grabbed a hold of the one-eyed creature and bashed it into the side of the rock, caving in his skull until the top of his head was completely flat. Dean threw an arrow to her that immediately pricked with fire. She stabbed it into the chest of the other demon. His rags set aflame and he began to roar in agony. He ran out of the cave, screaming, lighting the darkness with orange and searing their noses with the stench of melting, bubbling flesh.

All that was left now was the leader. He looked around at his fallen brethren, who, although not yet dead, were moaning limply in broken heaps.

He looked at Dean, who was still holding the pulsating dagger with a clenched, unshaking fist. He knew he had lost.

Instead of fighting, the leader roared and turned around, throwing Bobby to the ground and speeding off past the skeletal trees and into the giant rocks, who seemed to have watched the massacre with shameless glee.

The bodies around them shook and quivered, moaning for release. Meg put a hand on Dean’s and took the knife from him. Slowly, she slit the throats of the five demons, who gurgled and drowned in their own blood. It seemed to take a long time for them all to finally die. As Dean took the knife back from Meg and put it back into his bag, her eyes were back to their chocolate brown, and she was smiling darkly.

He looked over at Bobby, who was quite obviously trying to hide his distaste for what Meg had just done. He rubbed his hands down his clothes, shaking off the dirt. He nodded at Dean when he was done, looking like he had aged ten years since they had last seen each other. He held out his arms.

“Come here,” he said.

They hugged quickly. The man smelt of sweat and dirt, the way his father used to after a day at the garage.

“I’ve got to say Bobby,” Dean said as he pulled away, “I really didn’t think I’d be seeing you again.”

Bobby laughed, and smacked a hand to his shoulder boisterously.

“You and me both, boy.”

“What happened to you?” Dean asked. “One minute you were behind me, the next you were gone.”

Bobby shrugged, scratching a hand through his untrimmed beard.

“I barely know myself,” he began. “All I remember was walking in the forest, and then the ground opening up, so fast I didn’t even have time to work out what was going on. I fell, and then I blacked out. When I finally came to, I was here.”

Meg stepped forward, unveiling herself from the darkened cave.

“It’s a lucky break, you finding us,” she said. Her voice was strained in forced merriment, labouring a small smile.

“You had it under control,” answered Bobby, his own voice slightly tense. Dean had to remind himself that souls and demons didn’t usually engage in light conversation. “Meg, is it?”

“Yeah.”

“You keeping the prince in line?”

Meg nudged Dean playfully, the tension lifting.

“Yes, sir.”

Bobby nodded, gratified.

“Glad to hear it. Now, what’s say we get the hell out of here?”

“That sounds great,” started Dean morosely, “but Meg says there’s no way out.”

Bobby raised a brow at them.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” he said artlessly, rearranging his cap so it sat higher on his head, “but that’s a crock of shit. See that river?”

All three of them looked in the direction Bobby was pointing. Dean couldn’t believe he hadn’t spotted it before. Past the dead black trees and fleeting through the rock-faces was a thinning line of water that lapped in quick succession, running for miles amidst the greying mist.

“I’ve been following it,” continued Bobby. “A ways down there’s a bridge that leads out to the exit of this place.”

Meg shook her head, unconvinced.

“My father never spoke of a bridge.

Bobby looked at her, unperturbed.

“That’s probably because he didn’t know about it.”

“But it makes no sense…” Meg began, but could not find another word to argue.

Bobby sighed, but not unkindly.

“Let me put it this way,” he said, “‘cause you’ve been out of the loop for a long time. Castiel is a temperamental man. After the Pool was finished, the king got a little… trigger happy, so to speak. Before long, every soul and his grandmother had been sent here for one reason or another. After a while, Castiel realised, the more he imprisoned, the less souls he had to rule his fickle little hands over. So, he built a bridge, and hired a guard. The souls who had wronged him the least were offered promises of freedom in exchange for smuggling jobs, mercenary work, that kinda thing.”

Meg blinked at him, looking more confused by the minute. Bobby cleared his throat gruffly.

“It’s not common knowledge,” he said, a little flustered. “If word got out that you can pretty much come and go as you please, then the fear the Pool instils would disappear, and Castiel would no longer be the formidable overlord he so likes to claim.”

The demon scrunched her eyes, trying to process this new information.

“How do you know all this?” she asked him impatiently.

“I’m not proud of it, but I was a contact for the Lost on the outside. I helped with certain jobs,” he looked at Dean quickly. “The non-violent ones, of course. It offered me certain benefits, kept the demons off my back.”

Meg simply stared off into the distance, a look of loss and hopelessness on her pale, delicate face.

“I can’t believe this…” she said after a while. “Azazel. This place is a part of him. The way he’d talk about it, I think he loved the Pool more than his own children. If he knew Castiel had turned it into such a mockery…” she shook her head and folded her arms, taking a few steps towards the veining river.

“I spent so long being afraid of this place,” she said quietly. “I mean, I was actually grateful to have been exiled!”

Bobby walked over to her.

“Trust me, Meg,” he said bluntly, “Castiel wouldn’t have let you leave. He hates you.”

She had to laugh at this.

“I know,” she agreed, her mood lightening, but then something in her changed again. Her face fell.

“There was another… sent in my place.” She looked over the river as far as she could. “She could still be here. I have to find her!”

Bobby frowned at her regrettably.

“A woman? You saw what almost happened back there; women who end up in the Pool don’t last long. Whoever she is, she won’t be how you remember. I’m sorry.”

Meg was not deterred. She shook her head and began to pace.

“No. I told her I’d come for her. I can’t just leave her! She won’t have forgotten me, I swear.”

Dean looked at Bobby worriedly.

“Meg,” he tried. “Have you forgotten your father’s stories?”

“But it’s different here,” she retaliated, “Bobby said so himself! I can find her, I know it!”

With that, she turned from the two of them and began to run towards the rocks.

“Meg,” Bobby called after her. “Meg!”

Dean started to walk.

“I’ll go after her.”

Bobby grabbed a hold of his arm, as if to stop him, but as he looked at Dean he could see the fierce look in his eyes, and Bobby knew he would not be able to change his mind. He squeezed his arm, but let go.

“You better get back here in one piece, boy.”

Dean turned back around. Meg had already disappeared.

He broke into a run. The further he went into the Pool, the worse the smell became. It was hard to tell where he was going; everything looked the same, the same trees, the same laughing, screaming rocks. The mist became thicker and thicker until it was all he could see.

“Meg!” he yelled into the fog. “Meg, where are you?”

“Dean!” he heard from before him. “Turn back, now!”

It was her voice. He wasn’t going to heed her warning; he was going to take her across the bridge with him.

The mist lessened. He was staring out at a clearing where a circle of Lost were settled. Meg was with them, her arms being held behind her by one of the demons. There was a bundle of rocks next to them. A man was stood at the top of them, looking down and grinning at the crowd. Dean’s heart quickened; it was the demon they had fought outside the cave. It had been a mistake letting him go, for allowing him to escape, Dean knew that what was waiting for him now was going to be much worse.

“Ah, more guests!” the leader said with sullied delight. “Come to see the show?”

“Actually,” said Dean nervously, “we were just leaving…”

“No, you weren’t,” he replied darkly. “Boys, I think I’ve found our contenders.”

The Lost grabbed him, pulling him forwards into the circle.

“Get off me!” he yelled.

The leader laughed, his voice echoing around them. He finally settled.

“Let’s bring out the competition.”

Two Lost appeared, dragging another two demons with them. He recognised them as the men that had accosted him in Death’s Courtroom, the ones he’d spared in order to send Castiel a message. Castiel must have not appreciated the message, because they’d ended up here.

“Boys, you know what to do.”

Both demons were standing with the Lost holding their arms outstretched. One of them was terrified, screaming and flailing. The other was silent, his eyes drifting behind Dean to which there was a sharp, metallic sound, like dragging metal.

More Lost appeared, armed with a contraption not unlike those forged by Alastair’s tools. It appeared to be a man-sized catapult, with a large circular saw blade where the bucket would have been. They wheeled it over to the silent demon, who watched it with intensity, still not saying a word. His companion screamed beside him, begging for mercy as members of the Lost circled the mechanism.

The leader stood from his precipice and motioned to the Lost around him.

“This is the New World,” he said, “and in this New World we are warriors!”

The creatures around Dean roared and chanted, blaring their fists into the lightless sky.

One of the Lost pulled down a lever, and the blade on the contraption was pulled backwards, so it was rested on the ground.

“Don’t be afraid, now,” the leader said to the silent demon, whose eyes never left the circle. “I am going to turn you into a warrior.”

With a gesture of his hand, the saw was released from the catapult, and in one swift motion it had entered through the top of the demon’s head and cut down to the tip of his groin. It happened so quickly, Dean was not sure what he had seen—and then, slowly, the blackness of the silent man’s eyes arched to the top of his head, and his face began to fall away. Within a second, his body had split perfectly in two, and his blood and innards had spilled on to the floor in a steaming pile.

It was the most disgusting thing Dean had ever seen, and before he could stop it, the bile of his stomach emptied itself on to the already soiled ground around him.

The Lost only laughed. He felt a hard slap on his back as he wiped the sides of his mouth on the back of his sleeve. His eyes settled back on to the remains of the demon, and his stomach lurched once more as he realised that both halves of the man were twitching limply, with both fractions of his throat making small whines of agony. He was alive. Of course he was still alive. And he was begging for something.

It was the other demon’s turn. The Lost wheeled the catapult away from the twitching pile and focused it in front of his partner.

“Don’t do this,” the flailing demon pleaded, his sight blaring into the edges of the saw, which were dripping dark red.

The Lost gave him little time to continue begging; the order was given and the catapult was released again. The saw plummeted through the air and into the demon’s skull, tearing his body apart with the splice of its many wheeling blades. Dean watched as two perfect halves fell on to the ground. It was no easier watching it a second time. He bent over, retching, but nothing came out apart from a single droplet of spit.

The halves of the second demon did not twitch with the limpness of his partner. They were thrashing around like a fish on land, and a sharp, desperate noise was coming from his throat, piercing the stale air like a broken siren.

The Lost watched the four parts for a few moments, revelling in their macabre dance. Dean and Meg glanced at each other with one frantic look. Was that to be their fate in the Pool? He imagined himself split apart, the pieces of him left jerking on the ground, groaning savagely, still alive but no longer a person.

The leader peered down at the remnants, noting their movements studiously. Then, he motioned to the rest of the Lost, who looked upon him with reverence.

“Stitch ‘em back together,” he said.

The Lost sprang into action. The right half of the silent demon and the left half of the frantic one were lifted from the ground, and thrown nonchalantly into the passing river beside them. Within a moment they had washed away; all but remained of both halves were the thick blood that dyed the banks.

The remaining parts of both demons were dragged midway, until their faces were touching. The Lost held their heads together as another member appeared, armed with a very big needle in one hand, and thick black thread in the other. Dean’s stomach heaved again as the Lost fed the cord through the eye of the needle, and tied it in a knot. He held on to the right side of the face and stabbed the needle through. Very slowly, he began to feed it in and out. Before long the demons had been stitched down to their necks, then their torso, and then finally to the garbled remains of their groins.

The Lost backed away slowly, the sewist beaming down at his creation. No one spoke for a moment. Dean could not even tear his eyes away in order to look at Meg, or figure out a way of escaping. The monstrosity that lay before them was bewitching to them all. It did not move, and Dean was hypnotised, his gaze bearing down on it, watching for signs of life. The leader interrupted the creature’s mesmerism on the crowd as he motioned towards it with a flick of his hand, like a puppeteer ready for a show.

“Stand, warrior,” he commanded.

There was nothing—and then the creature cricked its neck, like it had reacted to the noise. Its fingers on both hands began to flex, grabbing at the soil. The sound of two throats joined into one wailed with the strength it needed to sit up straight. Its shoulders convulsed, and its fingers clawed its way further into the dirt, eventually pulling itself up into a sitting position.

Dean could see its face clearly now. The thread ran down in a crude line, and blood, both fresh and crusted, had settled itself around the cut like new skin. The iris of the silent demon had never emerged back from the top of his skull, and so the left eye was nothing but white and vein. The right eye had not been damaged. It was staring straight at Dean, and the boy shuddered.

Ever so slowly, it began to stand. The sickening sound of crunching bone could be heard, and the damaged wail of its two throats did not cease. Eventually, it had got to its feet. The left leg was taller than the other, so the creature stood at an angle, tilted. It remained motionless, only staring at Dean with a vacant expression from its one good eye.

The leader held out his hands above it to get the crowd’s attention.

“Boys,” he addressed, “bring forth the contenders.”

Strong arms grabbed them, pushing Dean and Meg forward.

“The rules of the game are simple,” he said to both of them. “There are no rules.

“He may not look like much,” the leader continued, bowing his head towards the stitched-up creature, “but don’t let that fool you. He is my warrior, and he is going to serve me fiercely.

“You will fight him, two-on-one. The winner is the one left standing.”

The Lost around them were beginning to howl lowly, a fighter’s chant.

“I like that knife of yours,” the leader said over the followers’ mantra. “It’s a shame I didn’t get to see you use it before.”

The creature began to fumble towards them, pathetically slow and blundering.

“I’ll admit,” the demon continued, “it’s not really a fair fight, is it? That’s why I lied about there being any winners. I _will_ hurt you once this is over.”

The chant got louder. The creature stumbled nearer. He was going to have to kill all of them if they had any hope of escaping. There must have been thirty, perhaps even forty demons scattering the circle, and all of them were chanting the same aggressive bark.

The creature was at his grasp. It held out a desperate hand, like it was calling for him. He did not expect the hardness of its hit. It brought its hand down across his face, throwing him to the floor. The Lost roared with violent delight, clapping and hollering fiercely. Meg yelled and rushed towards Dean, bashing her fists against its back. The creature turned around, and picked Meg up by the scruff of her collar. He threw her—hard—into the edging rock-face. She landed against it heavily, unmoving, her eyes closed.

He had distracted himself with the sight of Meg. The creature kicked him once, twice, three times—in his stomach, his chin, the back of his head. His vision blurred, and he could feel blood running down his face and into his mouth. The creature was roaring like the rest of them now, enraged, shadowing its master’s movements from the perch of the low cliff he was stood upon.

“Yes, warrior!” he yelled. “Tear him apart!”

The creature lifted him up, until Dean’s face was levelled with its own. It roared again, and threw him across the ground. He landed next to the spectators, who dragged him up and lunged him back towards the monster, laughing manically.

The creature was stumbling towards him once more. He knew he wouldn’t be able to handle much more of this—he needed to grab the dagger and use it, like the crowd was begging to see. He fumbled with the close of his bag, and brought the knife out wildly. It appeared to be sparkling, even in the darkened mist. It thirsted for more blood, and immediately Dean’s pain and fear lessened and was replaced with something else.

Before the creature could grab him again, he lunged it through its neck and into its divided brain. It moaned in confusion, and pain, stumbling with its arms in front of it. Dean rolled to the side to avoid being crushed as it fell clumsily to the ground.

“No!” the leader yelled. “Boys—get him!”

He did not have time to pause. The crowd had cut short their chants and sprung towards him, teeth bared and arms outstretched.

He was one with his weapon once more. It killed for him; Dean only a vessel for its hunger. It did not take long for the demons to die, until the only one that was left was the raging figure of the Lost’s leader, who was panting heavily, despite have done no fighting. He called down to Dean.

“I’m not stupid enough to die upon your blade, little boy. Go. Leave this place, and never come back here again!”

 _With pleasure_ , Dean thought, as he watched the cowardly leader turn on his heels and escape once more.

With the demon gone, it was only Meg and Dean left. There were so many dead, and so many bodies that the ground was no longer flat: it was an ocean. Dean couldn’t see the end of it. He had lost count of how many he must have killed, and it was unnerving just how calm he felt, looking at this ocean of corpses.

Meg was still lying back against the rock’s edge. He rushed over to her, lifting up her face. She opened her eyes slowly, and looked at him as if he was a stranger. After a moment, however, she smiled.

A soft gurgle sounded across from him, making him look. He and Meg shared glances. He picked her up and both of them followed the noise.

The abomination lay staring up at them with its one black eye, begging him wordlessly. Now that the leader was dead, it no longer had a puppeteer to raise its mismatched arms, or tread its drudging feet. It just looked at Dean now, pleading for the pain to end. Despite its ugliness, the pain in its face looked so human… Dean could sparsely dare to look back.

“Kill… Us…” it sounded at last, two voices merged into one.

He slit its throat, destroying the stitches that held the head together. The eye paled to grey, and it let out one last struggled breath before the dark finally took it.

“There are worse fates than death, right?” Meg said from beside him.

It was unsettling, killing something that wasn’t trying to kill him. He stood up.

“At least they could be put out of their misery.”

Meg looked at the sea of bodies that surrounded them.

“I think that could be said for the rest of them,” she said. “These demons fight you because they are in pain. They _want_ to die.”

“Really? ‘Cause I thought it was because they wanted me to lose.”

“Maybe some of them do,” Meg said bitterly. “But we’re not a hive-mind, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Dean did not have the energy for an argument. He turned away, back to where they had come from.

“Come on. Let’s go back to Bobby.”

“But my friend,” cried Meg from behind him.

Dean had been so caught up with the Frankenstein-like creature and the dozens of demons who he had destroyed with his blade, that he had completely forgotten the reason they were out here in the first place. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

“You saw what happened to those demons,” he said tiredly,” and they were only sent here a day ago. We can’t go further into the Pool; it’s too dangerous.”

Meg wanted to argue, but even she knew it was pointless.

“I know,” she said at last, and her voice had cracked.

Dean hated to see her like this. If it had been Sammy in the Pool, he would have never listened to reason.

“You’re a good person, Meg,” he said kindly. “Your friend knows that.”

She sniffed, smiling.

“Thanks, Dean.”

They turned back, past the bodies, past the rocks and the trees. They kept close to the river, walking in silence.

Outside the abolished cave lay more of the same, only Bobby was no longer there waiting for them. Dean looked around worriedly.

“Where’s Bobby?” he asked. “This is where we left him.”

Meg sniffed loudly.

“He… must have gone to the bridge. I’m sure he’s all right.”

Dean’s jaw tensed. He couldn’t handle another rescue mission.

“Let’s keep moving, then.”

They followed the river for another mile, eventually it becoming wider and the stream more rapid. The Pool was such a dark, lonely place, and the mist threatened to overwhelm them the further they went. He could not imagine being lost here forever, a slave of violence, shelterless from the cold. He followed Meg with sly glances, studying the way her hips rounded as she walked. They were here because Dean had kissed her, something Castiel had told her he could never do. He had kissed Castiel, too—at least, he had in a dream, a dream that had felt so certain. He touched his lips absentmindedly, remembering the feel of them both. He was being selfish again. He was here to save his brother, to fulfil a quest that had been waiting so long to be completed. He couldn’t waste time dwelling on dreams, of kings with velvet voices and girls with chocolate-coloured eyes.

His thoughts were interrupted as Dean spotted a simple wooden bridge ahead of them, crudely built, looking close to collapsing. Meg gasped with relief and marvel.

“It’s unguarded,” she said, rushing forward. “Come on!”

“No,” said Dean, shaking his head. “Castiel wouldn’t make it this easy. It’s a trap.”

“Well, I’m willing to take that risk if you are.”

“We need to wait for Bobby,” he said firmly.

Meg scowled, preparing to say something, when all of a sudden there was a thud.

Settling itself on the tip of the bridge’s end was a giant creature, screeching at them with its open mouth. Like a spawn of Death, it had sharp claws and two skeletal wings, flapping menacingly, ready to soar.

“What is that thing?!” cried Dean.

“I’d take it that’s the guard!”

The creature screeched again. It lifted itself up, hovering so high the mist consumed it. They head the flapping of wings and the upsurge of wind as it plummeted towards them.

“Kill it, Dean!” shouted Meg from beside him.

He grabbed the bow and arrow from his back, preparing to shoot it right between its ugly black eyes.

“Jo?”

A voice came from behind them, and Dean whirled around. Bobby was standing there, staring up at the monster, seemingly oblivious to Dean and Meg’s presence.

Dean faced the winged creature once more, his weapon ready—but instead of challenging him, it sheltered its wings and yielded. Within a second, the monster had shrunk to the size of Dean himself. Its skin turned from black to milky-white, its wings disappeared, and, before long, Dean was staring into the face of a pretty girl with straight blonde hair. She looked straight past Dean and Meg, to the man behind them.

“Bobby?”

He walked past them, his arms outstretched. He brought her into a tight hug, laughing.

“It’s good to see you, girl,” he said as he pulled away.

“What are you doing here?”

He shrugged hesitantly.

“Long story.”

“Ash,” she called, turning away from them, “look who it is!”

A figure emerged from behind a rock at the far end of the bridge, as if it had been hiding. It was reluctant for a moment, and then after some deliberation, stood tall. The figure walked over to them, smiling goofily at the older man. He was a dopey-looking man, with kind eyes and a weak chin, sporting a mullet that seemed out of place next to his ragged outfit and unwashed face.

“Bobby.”

They hugged, and Bobby took a lock of the man’s hair and laughed loudly.

“Nice haircut, you scrawny little bastard.”

The man smiled unapologetically, running a hand through it.

“You know how it is; business up front. Party in the—”

“Shut up, Ash,” Jo said, though she was smiling. She really was very pretty.

“So,” she said, finally looking over at the two outcasts, “who’s this sorry lot you got with you, Bobby?”

He smiled.

“You’ve heard of Dean Winchester, haven’t you?”

Jo didn’t say anything for a moment. She looked at Dean, folding her arms and raising an eyebrow slightly.

“Well I’ll be damned.”

Dean tried to look brazen.

“Nice to meet you, too.”

“Bobby,” she said, not moving her gaze from Dean, “how much have I missed?”

“Oh,” he said, chuckling, “a lot.”

Jo let out a heavy breath, sizing Dean up, comparing him to the legend she’d heard so much about.

“Come, step into the light, boy; I wanna look at you.”

Although they seemed round about the same age, Jo had an air of authority to her that he did not want to challenge—that, and she could turn into a giant monster.

He stepped forward, suddenly feeling that his boots were too small for his feet. Jo studied him once more.

“You come to save us, Dean Winchester?” she asked him playfully. “‘Cause, you know you can’t get out of here without my permission, and I’ll only give it if I like your answer.”

Dean blushed. He could see Meg scowling from the corner of his eye, but he ignored her. He looked over to Jo, to Bobby, to Ash. All of them were looking at him with a waiting, hopeful expression. He was not one for speeches. Dean’s cheeks flushed once more, and the boy cleared his throat shyly.

“I came to this world because I did a selfish thing that I needed to set right, miss,” he started. “That was all it was in the beginning, just a mistake I needed to change. But then I met some people who were willing to sacrifice it all if it meant I could make a difference.”

He looked at Bobby then, who smiled, and nodded him on.

“So now,” he continued, looking back at Jo. “I’m not just doing it for my brother, I’m doing it because their sacrifices weren’t for nothing. If you let me through, I’m gonna go to Castiel’s castle. I’m gonna look him in the eyes, and I’m going to make him answer for what he’s done. And then I’m gonna kill him. And after he’s dead, the people who held on can finally be free. And those who can’t be,” he looked at Meg, “can live in a world that is no longer ruled by a man who hides inside a castle while his people live like animals. They can rebuild, and start again.”

He stopped, his heart beating wildly in his chest. It was the first time he’d said it out loud, the first time he actually sounded like he could be a hero—but it was true. All of it was true. Every word.

“That’s why I need your permission,” he finished, and he didn’t blink as he stared into Jo’s curious, debating eyes.

Her expression was unreadable, and for a moment Dean was worried he had said the wrong thing. She looked over at Bobby, then at Ash, who nodded at her avidly. She finally locked eyes with Dean again and smiled.

“That’s good enough for me,” she said, and pointed her chin behind her, to the end of the bridge. “Go.”

Relief washed over Dean. He picked up his feet and began walking. Meg followed him, but as she crossed by Jo, the soul put a hand up in hindrance.

“Not you, honey.”

Meg scowled.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s a demon doing helping the Righteous Prince?”

“You heard him,” she said defensively. “Rebuild and start again, right?”

Dean halted, and held a hand in front of Jo.

“Meg’s proven herself to me enough times,” he said firmly. “She doesn’t have to do it for anyone else. Wherever I go, she’s coming.”

Jo squinted her eyes at him, annoyed at his answer. She gave one last hard look at Meg, but stood aside.

“Who am I to refuse a prince?”

They walked across the bridge, the mood suddenly tense. Bobby stopped as he reached the end.

“Jo,” he said, turning round, “come with us. You and Ash.”

The girl shook her head, her face hardening.

“You know what will happen if I try, Bobby.”

Bobby placed his hands on her shoulders. She scowled, but did not pull away.

“Castiel isn’t as strong as he was,” he told her kindly. “You can thank Dean for that. One more day, Jo, and we’ll all be free; isn’t that worth a little faith?”

Ash stepped beside her, his face lighting up.

“Let’s do it, Jo,” he whispered excitedly. “Come on. You’ll be okay.”

She looked at him, her expression softening, as if she was considering it. After a moment, however, she shook her head once more and shrugged off Bobby’s hands.

“You don’t know that for certain,” she said, looking down.

“When Dean gets to the city,” Bobby said, “there’s gonna be a fight waitin’ for him. He’s gonna need all the help he can get.”

“We can definitely use those claws of yours,” Dean piped in, smiling.

To Dean’s relief, Jo smiled back.

“Okay,” she said finally.

“Okay!” Bobby said, smacking her shoulder and laughing along with Ash.

The five of them stepped over the bridge, on to the mossy ground of the exit where fur trees were waiting ahead of them in messy bunches. Jo’s steps were small and fearful, as if she was expecting the ground to open up before her. Dean heard Meg snigger from beside him. He was about to give her a look when Jo fell to the ground in front of them, screaming in pain.

“It’s happening!” she seethed through laboured breath. Her body was trembling, and her head sunk to the ground. All of a sudden, she arched her back, and two patches of blood appeared on each shoulder blade.

“Oh, God, no!” she cried, limply grabbing at the wounds.

Ash ran towards her, but was stopped by Bobby, who threw him back.

“What’s happening to her?”

Jo had gone silent. She lay on the ground, seemingly unconscious. The blood that was pouring down her back suddenly lessened, then slowly began to seep back up the seams of her top. Finally, it was as if she had never bled at all.

Bobby held up a hand to halt the others’ movements. He watched Jo’s stagnant form, as if expecting her to get up and attack them. After a few moments, however, he deemed it safe enough to touch her.

He turned her upwards, and she looked up at him, blinking madly.

“Jo?” Bobby asked worriedly. “Jo, are you all right, honey?”

“Am I…” she struggled. “Am I one of them?”

Bobby laughed, hugging her.

“No,” he cheered. “Din’t I tell ya?”

“I can’t believe it…” she said, feeling at the place of her shoulders where her wounds had appeared. “My wings are gone.”

Bobby held out a hand and lifted her to her feet.

“Looks like you’re just an average soul now,” he said.

Ash smiled at her, relieved.

“Guess we won’t be needing your claws after all.”

Jo smiled back, though perhaps a little regretfully.

“Let’s go,” she said, and led the way.

Dean started walking, half expecting Meg to be traipsing along side him, but she wasn’t.

He turned around. She had his back to him, and was staring out across the river, to the dark, cold plains that had tried to swallow them.

“Meg,” he shouted, “Meg, are you coming?”

She jumped slightly, as if lost in thought. She turned and looked back at him, a forced smile on her face.

“I’ll be right behind you,” she said, “I just…”

She turned back around again, and Dean nodded. They hadn’t been able to save her friend. She was still stuck there, and Dean could only wonder the horrors she had had to endure in Meg’s place—horrors she would never escape from now.

“I get it.”

He eyed her sadly and began to follow the others. Meg watched him disappear behind the trees and turned her head back towards the Pool.

She wasn’t thinking about her friend, not really.

Her mission was going to be harder, now that Dean had kissed her. Meg could only imagine the rage and jealousy Castiel must have felt when witnessing his precious prince putting his affections toward another. She put a hand in her pocket, and pulled out the amulet. She hadn’t mentioned it to Dean since their reunion, and a part of her had no intention to.

She held it out over the side of the river. She could do it, she thought, right now—drop it in and let it sink to the bottom. No one would ever have to know.

 _I wouldn’t do that if I were you_ , a voice called from the distance.

Meg jumped, almost dropping the amulet in the process. She grabbed a tighter hold of it and shoved the amulet back in her pocket.

Castiel was not going to let her betray him twice.

* * *

“Interesting…”

The king had watched his broken crystal with profound diligence, an excessive closeness. It had been an interesting turn of events and Castiel barely had time to process them.

His prince had kissed the demon, and so the ground they stood upon had punished them both for it. It was something the king had not expected. But the labyrinth was loyal to its master, and sometimes it would do things without his admission. He could not be angry: the labyrinth was changing. The bridge guard had left her post, and instead of being punished, she broke free. It was unsettling, but the king knew that the maze was a complicated thing, and that he should not fear its growth. That was the most wondrous thing about his creation; it was transforming in front of his very eyes.

“My lord,” came a voice.

It was his servant, Crowley, standing timidly from across the room. He had not seen him for a few hours, not since their disagreement.

“I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour before,” he said, walking over to the throne and bowing slightly. “I had no right to speak so bluntly.”

He was a loyal subject, Castiel thought, and he had known it would not take long for him to come crawling back.

“Oh, Crowley,” he said smiling, “that’s quite all right. In fact, I’m rather touched at how much you care about my wellbeing.”

“Of course,” the servant answered, relieved. “You are my king. All that matters to me is your safety.”

The king chuckled.

“Oh, Crowley. You really needn’t worry about me. Have you forgotten how I did it the last time?”

“His brother was a—”

“A self-righteous, self-loathing know-it-all with a hero complex,” Castiel interrupted cockily. “Remind you of anyone? I mean, the similarities are uncanny, and I’m sure if Samuel were a little older the likenesses between him and Lucifer would be there, too.”

Crowley looked up at him, uncertainty in his now black eyes.

“This is just the past repeating itself, Crowley,” he reassured him. “And at the end of the story, I am still on my throne, and two more brothers are doomed.”

Crowley frowned, unconvinced.

“Did you not see him kill Azazel?”

“I was hoping someone would take care of him,” the king replied nonchalantly.

“He escaped the Pool of the Lost!”

“Oh, lighten up, Crowley. It’s all going as it’s supposed to.”

His servant scowled, ever so slightly, fighting away the urge to answer back. He recovered—bowed—and turned to leave.

“Oh, Crowley,” the king called after him, “before you go. Pass me that sword, would you?”

A decorated weapon with red and gold jewels on the hilt hung on the wall behind an exposed screen. It was a grand-looking thing, an antique, more beautiful than it was foreboding.

Crowley lifted it from its handles and offered it to the king, who stood from his throne to take it.

It felt good in his hands, heavy. It had been a long time since he had used it.

He beckoned to his servant with the brunt of the steel. Crowley took a step forwards, his eyes never leaving the silver glimmer.

Castiel faltered a moment, pondering—then he lunged with the sword, penetrating it through Crowley’s stomach and out the other end. His servant yelped in surprise and pain, and a river of blood fell from his open mouth, down his front and staining the innards between the stone bricks he stood upon.

Castiel pulled the sword out, slowly. Crowley held on to the wound and looked up at him in disbelief.

“My Lord!”

“Interesting…”

“You stabbed me!” he yelled in indignation, still clutching at his bloodied wound. “I can’t believe you just stabbed me!”

Castiel appeared not to have heard him. He simply stared at the sword, and then to his crystal ball.

“For now, it’s just the knife…” he noted to himself, watching the prince’s fragmented image. “Or perhaps you need to be close to Dean in order to do it. Very interesting…”

Crowley stared up at him, horrified at the flippancy of his words. He would have killed his most loyal servant, just to test out a theory.

“Is that everything, your Majesty?” he asked him, and his voice was laced with the thick edge of malice.

“Yes, Crowley,” the king replied cheerfully, not looking at him. “You may go.”


	16. Inside the Amulet

Their group had gotten so big in such a short amount of time. Jo, Ash and Bobby were all swapping stories, laughing and reminiscing about old times. Their high spirits were catching, and Dean couldn’t help but grin along side them. For the first time in a while, he was hopeful. They were getting nearer and nearer to Castiel’s castle. He had allies, weapons—he even had armies in the form of Tessa’s Tainted and the Children. He looked at the face of the pocket-watch Meg had given him. By his calculations, he had a little over a day to reach the city and save his brother. All he needed to do now was go to the Tower and collect the last ingredient. He put the watch away and laughed along with Jo and the others—the rest of his journey was going to be a piece of cake.

Dean was in such a good mood, he’d failed to notice that Meg had not quite caught up to them since leaving the Pool.

“ _We’ve_ got in quite a few scrapes, haven’t we, Meg?” he said chuckling, turning around.

She was trudging ten steps behind them, her hair hanging in loose waves in front of her face as she stared at her feet. She looked up at the sound of her name, but did not reply.

Dean smiled at the others apologetically, his pace lagging until he was step-by-step with Meg.

“You okay?” he asked her.

She shrugged stiffly, her hands grasped together in awkward comfort.

“Guess I’m not so good with crowds.”

It was hardly surprising. Meg had been alone for a hundred years. Not only that; she was a demon amongst souls, a force of evil with a tainted heart—at least, that’s the way Jo had seen it. Dean’s ears pricked at the sound of their elated tones, still laughing and arguing with jest, but he hung back. He walked in silence with Meg a while, letting their footsteps lag slower until the voices of the others had mulled.

“Um, Dean?” her voice was low and timid, as if she hoped he would not hear her.

“Yeah, Meg?”

She bit her lip a moment and stopped, watching as the group disappeared from sight. She dug into her pocket, and pulled out a closed fist a moment later.

“I have something for you.”

She opened her palm. Dean found himself looking at a horned face, of hard wood and splintered gold. It stared back at him, oscillating with power, like it could see him, too.

“My amulet!” he cried. He took it quickly, revelling its coolness, its sharp, familiar edges. “How did you get it back? I thought I’d lost it forever!”

She bit her lip again.

“I ran into the two wise men on my way to find you. They’d…had a change of heart,” she said hesitantly, her eyes darting towards the trees. “They wanted you to have it back.”

Dean had no more questions, no more doubts. He had his allies, his weapons, he had his amulet and he had Meg.

“I can’t believe this…” he awed, putting it on over his head. “Thank you…”

His body electrified with the coldness of its horns, like the skin on his chest had disappeared and it was resting on bone. The chill ran through him, into his heart, down his legs. He blinked slowly, the frost draining itself behind his eyes.

“Are—are you okay?”

Dean had put an arm out to steady himself. Meg held on to him, staring at him fearfully.

“My head…” he began, the ice spreading, “it feels funny. I need to sit down.”

He fumbled for a place to rest, his steps clownish and heavy. He fell in a heap, landing on his back. He looked up, unfocused. The branches were weaving, like the bend of a river. They twisted and spun, until the trees were no longer anchored to the ground, but were spiralling into contorted shapes and walking on their own. Meg was on her feet, careening and swaying like the rest of the forest.

“Everything’s dancing...”

He heard Meg begin to cry, felt her soft hands as she tried to pull him up.

“Oh, God, Dean,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry.”

The trees were dying; their branches writhing into spider’s legs. The forest was getting darker, the trees closing in around him.

“Sorry?” he asked, his voice far away. “Meg, what have you done?”

The girl cried harder, but refused to answer him. Instead, she let him go.

“Damn you, Castiel,” she grieved, cursing the sky. “And damn me, too.”

Meg turned and ran, breaking her promise and abandoning Dean a second time.

“Wait,” he called after her lamely, his vision darkening, “don’t leave me…”

But she was gone. Dean was alone, and after one last panicked moment, everything went black.

* * *

Music.

Before he opened his eyes, there was music.

Dean was standing at the end of a hallway, the walls painted white, and the ceiling adorned with pale hangings that swung softly like glittering ice. The music was coming from behind a faded, oak-lined door that stood at the head of the corridor. Dean walked towards it, his steps feeling light and agile against the soft, wooden floor. He approached the door, desperate to touch it. He held out a hand to turn the handle, but the entry opened, swiftly, of its own accord.

He walked into a great room, it, too, white and garnished with crystal drapery. There were many people in the room, bodies clasped together in graceful movement. They were dressed in finery, of cloaks laced in beads and gemstones and dresses that trailed endlessly. On each of their faces were masks of varying shapes and colours. Dean could see beaks of differing lengths, veils of feather and lace, some masks so big they covered the whole face, others only big enough to cover the dancers’ eyes. Dean looked down at his arms, and saw that he was clothed in a costume of luminescent silver, the very material shimmering as if made of water.

Dean took a step forward. The music filled him, running through his body like beating blood. He wanted to dance like the others, but every one seemed to already have a partner. He walked through the waltzing crowd, unnoticed by those enamoured by their masked companions. He wanted to be a part of it; he wanted to catch somebody’s eye.

There was a man standing solitarily up ahead, draped in robes of deep, moonlit blue. To his face, he held up a mask, the visor horned and painted with gold that had long since begun to fade, and unveil the old wood that lay behind it. Even from so far away, Dean knew the man was watching him. He walked towards him, as desperate to near him as he had been to uncover the music obscured by the door. He pushed his way through the bodies, not daring to blink in case the man disappeared. The horned mask awaited him, its expression blank. Dean could see the outline of his lips peeking from underneath, turned at the sides in a muted smile.

He arrived before the man, the dancers clearing until there was no one Dean could see but the horned face staring back at him. He approached closer, without a plan, without an inkling as to what he would say. The man did not remove his mask, and instead watched Dean, wordlessly, for several moments. The boy suddenly felt very foolish, and the vacant expression of the horned face shrunk him until he felt as small as a child. He turned to leave, angry, until the man’s hand fell away and the mask was on the floor—powerless, irrelevent.

Dean could see his face, now, pale like the walls, smooth but lined with the creases of wisdom. He gave Dean a small smile, his chin dimpling, and his eyes—eyes that seemed so familiar—were gleaming a brilliant shade of blue, the colour of the sky after a storm has passed, the way an ocean glitters just below the surface. Desire sledgehammered Dean, rooting him to where he stood. He knew no words; could only worship the man in foolish, devoted silence.

The blue-eyed man stepped forward, the small smile still etched on his face. He stood next to Dean, surveying the crowd of elegant dancers. Dean turned around, watching the movement of their feet, their closeness and concentration, the enchantment and lure they found within each other.

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” the man said, with a voice deep and refined. “Everybody’s so happy. They don’t have a care in the world.”

Dean had nothing to say, but would have gladly listened to the man speak until it drowned him.

“But you,” the man continued, “there’s such a sad look in your eyes. A kind of pale jewel. It’s the first thing I noticed when I looked at you.”

He smiled again, putting a hand to Dean.

“Come,” he said, the touch of him leaving an imprint on Dean’s shoulder like footsteps after rain, “have a drink with me.”

They walked together, the dancers parting a way through the middle of the white room. They came across a table laced with silken cloth. A silver goblet stood in the centre of it, filled to the top with deep red liquid. It watered Dean’s mouth just to look at it. The man grabbed two glasses and poured the drink in both. He handed it to Dean, who took it timidly. He raised it to his mouth, Dean following suit, and took a long draught, draining the glass in one. Dean swallowed the liquid in example, immediately noting the warm sweetness of it as it poured down his throat. It settled in his stomach, his whole body flushing with comfortable fullness.

“Do you like it?” the man asked him.

Dean smiled gratefully, nodding.

He took the goblet once more and refilled both their glasses. The two stood together, drinking slowly as they watched the crowd continue to dance.

“I have not been to this place in some time,” the man remarked, his voice sounding silkier the more he consumed. “You see, there’s no one here I’ve wanted to dance with, no one that’s quite caught my eye.”

Dean assessed the masked dancers, curious at his disregard.

“But everyone here’s so beautiful.”

“Only some,” the man replied, his tone even. He took Dean’s empty glass from him, setting it on the table. He stepped in front of Dean and held out a hand, his head arched with a bow. “Will you dance with me?”

Dean felt his cheeks burn.

“I don’t know how to dance,” he said, taking a hold of his hand anyway.

The man only smiled.

“I’ll teach you.”

He held Dean’s hand in gentle firmness, their fingers wrapped around each other. He led Dean to the middle of the ballroom; the music was its clearest here, the light soft and illuminating the man’s features until he was a reflection in a pool. Dean brought himself closer, his heart so loud it stifled the song. The two danced together, Dean’s feet moving in a way that was beyond his control. He didn’t know how long the man had had his arms around him. He looked up, studying the dark blue rings around the edge of his irises, the light draw of breath, soft and fresh-smelling. How long had he been dancing in this grand white ballroom, with this man who was looking at him like they had known each other for a thousand years?

“There’s that sad look again,” the man drawled softly, his movements slowing. “You’re somewhere far away.”

Dean did not want the dance to end, but he could not escape a feeling of uncertainty that was burying itself in his every step.

“I was just…” he started, and he paused as he watched the dancers around them. Somehow their waltz had lessened in grace, their movements becoming sluggish as the notes of the music slurred. “I can’t remember how I got here. I was…” he scrunched his face, desperate to catch his fleeting thoughts before they disappeared, “looking for something…”

The man put a hand to Dean’s cheek and they looked at each other, their faces inches away.

“But, Dean,” he said urgently, “you’ve found it.”

“I have?”

The man pulled away, and immediately Dean felt colder. He held out a hand that Dean took instantly, and within a second the music had returned to normal and the dancers moved with fluid beauty once again.

“Will you come with me?” the blue-eyed man asked kindly. “I want to show you something.”

Dean nodded obligingly, and began to follow the man out of the room.

“Wait,” he said, his footsteps halting. “You know my name? What’s yours?”

The man pulled at Dean’s arm slightly, continuing down the way.

“Follow me and I’ll tell you.”

They left the dancers, the tranquil music, out another oak-lined door in the corner of the room. There was that same white hallway, an identical door at the end of the corridor. They walked swiftly towards it, the door opening by itself as they approached the handle.

Dean was staring at the edge of the world. They had come on to a grassy landscape, surrounded by thick, moss-covered trees that rose high beyond the deluge of clouds. Across the landscape lay a sun close to setting, the blaze of orange seeping above ground and masking them both in a dimming light. He stared out at it, letting the sun burn his eyes. Something about this place seemed so familiar, as if he had visited it many times before.

“Is this a dream?” he asked the man.

“Only if you want it to be,” came his reply.

He kissed Dean then, softly, on the edge of his open mouth. Dean tasted on him the sweet red drink, his lips warm and his breath quick and full of wanting as he brought himself closer.

Dean pulled away, if only to say one thing:

“I don’t.”

The kiss evolved quickly; no more patience, no more careful caution. The man wanted Dean, and Dean was going to give himself back ever so willingly. The man grabbed the back of his hair and breathed raggedly between the motions.

“Open your mouth,” he demanded.

Dean’s mind was transported to a wood he had once wandered in, alone and desperate and afraid. A man had found him, taunted him for his hopelessness, mocking him for a hatred he clung to despite knowing it was never really his. He, too, had taken Dean into his arms, held on to a handful of his hair, and commanded that same thing of him.

_I’ve kissed him before._

Dean looked into the man’s eyes—Castiel’s eyes, and remembered everything. Sammy, his father, Meg. Meg had given him back his amulet, the one he’d given away in exchange for answers on a mother he had lost, but hoped to find again. He had put it on, ever grateful for her loyalty. It had felt strange… clouded his eyes. He had fallen asleep, and woken up in a beautiful place where his destiny no longer mattered. He was kissing Castiel on the edge of the world as his brother waited for him, trapped in a castle of men with coal-black eyes. He was being selfish. He was being selfish. He was…

“What’s wrong?” Castiel asked him, his brows furrowed as he studied the panicked expression on Dean’s face.

This was only a dream, he assured himself, and you couldn’t be selfish in a dream. He was only sleeping, and in reality, this would be over in a heartbeat. Sammy would not miss him for a second. He could do something selfish. Just this once…

He closed his eyes, and ran his hands down the nape of Castiel’s neck.

“Nothing…” he whispered, bringing the king closer to him, their lips a breath apart. “Don’t stop.”

He kissed Castiel fiercely, kissed him with the force of someone who knew he could not be this selfish ever again. They did not stop or pause for breath, but moaned into each other’s mouths, whispering inconceivably of promises and demands. Castiel sighed Dean’s name, thundered it like an animal. Dean whispered the king’s name as well, but never aloud. He repeated it in his head, again and again, forever reminding himself of what was happening, for he knew this could be the first and only time it ever did. Castiel’s touch set Dean aflame, as if each trace were leaving burns on his skin. But these were burns of pleasure, and the heat filled him with an ecstasy that left him clinging to the king, begging to be burned again and for the rest of time.

Castiel’s kisses brought themselves down Dean’s neck and to his chest. He unveiled the ties of Dean’s robes, pulling the sleeves off his shoulders to bare a torso that was no longer dirty and blood-stained, but smooth, and glistening with sweat that settled itself in small beads. Castiel kissed every inch of skin he could get to. They both collapsed on the soft ground, the grass a pillow against Dean’s back. The king’s kisses brought themselves to the fringe of Dean’s breeches, the material tight against his groin as he throbbed from behind it. Castiel unbuckled the fabric, pulling the silver cloth down his legs. The reality of the boy surpassed every fantasy the king had ever had. He was perfection, lying there against the grass, begging for Castiel to touch him. He put his mouth on him, and Dean shuddered, his pleasure surpassing anything that could be formed into words. Castiel stayed like that a while, his hands on the boy’s stomach, stroking themselves across his chest and up to his neck. The king’s own robes were stiff against him, craving a release from the tight fabric. He undressed himself hurriedly; every moment that wasn’t spent kissing Dean a wasted one. Once he had finished, he moved himself on top of him. They kissed again; Dean so grateful the dream had not yet ended. He would die if it did, not now after he had waited so long for it.

They did not break apart for a long while, their mouths swollen yet endlessly hungry for more. At last, Dean could no longer stand it. He begged for it, commanded it of Castiel, pleaded it through hot, panted breaths. Finally, Castiel pushed himself inside him. Dean wrapped his legs around him, holding them together tightly. Castiel moved slowly, adapting to the tightness, until Dean released a moan of permission and the king allowed himself to go faster, abandoning his senses with every motion. In that moment, there was no plan, there was no spell, Dean had given himself to Castiel and they both knew what they were doing, what they had let themselves in for. Dean did not let go of him, not until the king’s hot, frenzied moan bore itself into the boy’s neck as he released himself inside him, and Dean grasping ever tighter until his warmth had smothered them both whole, undoing the king completely, like he always knew Dean would.

* * *

Dean woke up, feeling warm and uncommonly relaxed. He had slept on soft grass, and had dreamt a beautiful dream. He rolled over; the naked form of Castiel sleeping soundly beside him. He blinked, watching as the king’s chest rose high and low with each deep breath. He had dreamt he had awoken in a ballroom, where people were dancing in strange, exotic masks, to a wonderful, placid song. He had danced with Castiel in that room, then he had followed him to this green, sun-setting place, and he had allowed himself to be selfish enough to fuck the man who had kidnapped his brother, and held him prisoner in a castle guarded by high walls and creatures with rotting hearts.

He had been with the king in a dream, and he was to wake up again in the forest of fur trees where Meg and the others were waiting for him. Why had he not awoken? Why was he still here?

He dressed quickly, the silver robes feeling itchy and tight-fitting as he put them back on. The pale wooden door was standing by the entrance of the forest. He rushed over to it, grasping at the handle, but it remained shut. Castiel had opened his eyes at the sound of the doorknob, and watched Dean struggle against the wooden frame. He put on his robes and approached him slowly.

“Dean?”

He turned around. The sun had finally set, basking them in a grey darkness. He moved away from the door, making sure Castiel could not get too close.

“Why am I here?” he asked the king slowly.

“Why? Because this is where you belong.”

Dean shook his head, his hands shaking.

“I don’t belong here.”

The king edged closer.

“Dean…” he pleaded.

“My brother needs me.”

“No,” Castiel said, his voice wavering. This was not how it was meant to go. The plan had worked. Meg had given him the amulet. He had arrived at this place and given himself to the king. He had used ancient magic to take Dean to this place. It couldn’t have faded. Castiel was too powerful to let that happen, but Dean only shook his head once more.

“You stole him away,” he said, “and then you took me. You trapped me here. You won’t let me leave.”

Castiel put his head in his hands, that same headache returning, pounding behind his eyes.

“You weren’t supposed to remember.”

Dean guffawed, growing angry.

“Weren’t supposed to?” he repeated. “So you’d be happy fucking a zombie?”

“No,” Castiel said at once. “No. The way you were with me just then… You were alive, Dean.”

“Well, that’s because—”

“Because what?” And then he realised. “Because you’d already remembered.”

He did not even have to ask.

“Stop.”

Castiel ignored him, walking forwards, but this time Dean did not move away.

“I knew it,” the king said, his voice full of yearning. “The moment I kissed you, it all came back, didn’t it? But you didn’t care. You let me have you.”

It was cruel, him saying these things, because it was true, and it shamed Dean to hear it. He had risked the freedom of his brother, of every soul in the labyrinth, so he could have a night of selfishness.

“Fuck you!”

Dean ran at the king, flooring him to the ground, on to grass that was now long and jagged. He wrapped his fingers around Castiel’s neck and began to squeeze.

“I could drain the life out of you,” he said through gritted teeth, choking the king harder, “right now.”

Castiel struggled beneath him, his arms on Dean’s.

“Have you forgotten your quest, Dean?” he fought in a strangled voice. “No matter how badly you wish to kill me, you can only do it with one weapon.”

He was right; of course he was. Dean could keep his hands around Castiel’s neck for the rest of eternity, and still, the king would not die.

Dean let go, shaking with anger. He got up, and ran for the door. When it did not open, he punched it, breaking the skin on his knuckles, but unable to feel anything other than the rage he felt towards Castiel in that moment.

The king stood up slowly, nursing his bruised neck. He looked at Dean, who was panting by the door.

“I know you must hate me,” he said tenderly, never taking his eyes off the boy’s face. “I deceived you, and I’m sorry. But I know the real reason you’re angry. The way you feel about me, it contradicts every reason that you’re here. I have your brother, and I must die in order for you to save him. Look at you,” he said, urging closer. “The whole world is bearing down on your shoulders, screaming at you, demanding that you save it.

“It must be exhausting being a hero…” he continued, “It’s why I’ve never been one. For some reason, Dean, we are drawn to each other even though every single part of us tells us it’s wrong. But I don’t care,” he said resolutely, the pain in his head and neck forgotten, “and I don’t think you do, either.”

He walked forwards until he was close enough to kiss him.

“Look at you,” he said lovingly; running a hand down Dean’s cheek, “you’re so beautiful.”

“Stop it,” Dean whispered, but he did not pull away.

“Don’t tell me my touch doesn’t fill you with something,” the king said, his hunger returning. “Just let it fill you.”

His hand fell to Dean’s chest, and the boy threw it off disgustedly.

“Get off me!” he shouted, walking to the middle of the clearing. Castiel only sighed.

“You can keep fighting, or you can accept the inevitable,” he said, his heart racing. “You don’t want to go back there, Dean, to that cold place, to a father that doesn’t love you. Once you save your brother, what then? Your old life is nothing to you anymore. Stay here. Live as a king by my side. We could rule together.”

Dean scowled.

“What makes you think I would even want that?” he spat, but Castiel could see the fight in his eyes dying, just a little.

“Because of the way you look at me,” he said. “You had that same look when I saw you in the nursery the first time. You’re looking at me that same way now.”

They continued to look at each other, blue eyes on green. Castiel marched to where Dean stood, and he took him in his arms once more.

“Let me have you again,” he whispered between desperate kisses. “Just once; I beg you.”

Dean kissed him back, pulled away, moaned as their lips met again.

“No,” he tried, though he did not fight anymore. “Stop. Stop,” he repeated lamely, losing himself in the king’s embrace.

“Tell me you love me,” panted Castiel, running his hands down to Dean’s crotch. “Say it, Dean.”

They got lost in each other again, their bodies hardening. _It could be so easy_ , Dean thought as Castiel nibbled against his ear, _to be selfish again. So easy…_

But in that moment he saw his brother’s face, saw his mother, who had died because of this place. If he did this now, he was worse than her killer. He was the Righteous Prince. He was in the labyrinth for one reason only: to save his brother, to save the souls, to save himself. He was here to save people, and he couldn’t lose. Not now.

“ _No!_ ”

He pushed Castiel hard to the ground. He rushed to the door, this time, it opened at his touch, and he sped down the corridor. It was no longer white and glittering, but grey and old, gathering dust and spider’s webs.

He slammed through the second door and into the ballroom. The music was excruciatingly loud, its melody a mash of broken, clashing notes. The masked people no longer danced, and were no longer beautiful. They were demons; every last one of them, and they were killing each other, ripping their partners apart, staining the white floor with blood and masks.

Dean rushed through them towards the door he had first arrived through. Once he reached the other side, there was no door to be seen. He looked around him wildly, across every inch of wall, but now, the other door had disappeared, too. He ran towards the barrier, bashing it violently with his fists.

“Get me out of here!” he screamed. “Get me out! Sammy!”

But Sammy was not here. There was no one here apart from Castiel’s animals. He was never to leave this place; his punishment for giving himself to the bastard king.

In the centre of the room he noticed something, gleaming crudely amongst the mass of bodies that littered the ground. He rushed over to it, grabbing it without really knowing what he was doing. He was holding Castiel’s horned mask, the face of his amulet. Without thinking, he rushed to the edge of the room, throwing the mask at the wall and letting it shatter through it. At once, the room began to crumble. The ceiling caved, the ground collapsed, and Dean was shrouded in darkness once more.


	17. The Mirrored Bedroom

Something sharp was digging into his left side. He opened his eyes into a squint, his vision blurry, and felt blindly towards the object. He picked it up and studied it close to his face. It was steel, wrought in the shape of a sailboat. Dean’s mind flickered to an image of his five-year-old self playing with a wooden version, as John and Mary smiled at him from the nursery door. It was a painful thought. Dean put the steel boat down and attempted to stand. He felt exhausted, like he hadn’t slept in weeks, and his head was pounding, right behind his eye. He was standing in the middle of a very large junkyard. Steel and rubbish littered the ground in steep towers, the path between each one small and winding. He could not remember how he had arrived at this place. He felt sick and confused. He didn’t know where he was, or why he was here. He just wanted to go home…

“Lisa?”

A girl was stood in the clearing. She was smiling at him with soft, pink lips. Her brown hair was long and fell down her shoulders, and her eyes—chocolate brown—were glittering at him as she let out a soft giggle. Who else did he know with eyes like hers?

“Hello, silly,” she said, approaching him.

“L-Lisa,” he stammered, “are you real?”

“Of course I’m real,” she said, laughing again. She held out her hand and took Dean’s in it. He was shaking, but the firmness of her grip steadied him slightly, and made his head hurt a little less. “Come on, get your feet out of the dirt.”

He followed her through the piles of junk and steel. She was wearing that perfume he liked, and it filled his nostrils, reminding him of better times.

“Where are we going?”

“You need a good old rest, you do,” she said, glancing around. “You look exhausted.”

“I guess I am kinda tired.”

“Of course you are!” she said loudly. “Look,”—for they had come across a white-painted door which she opened swiftly with a twist of the doorknob, “I even made your bed for you! Now, don’t tell me that doesn’t look tempting.”

They were standing in his bedroom, an old room with a cracked ceiling and peeling walls, decorated sparsely with second-hand furniture that had been donated to the Winchesters from kindly neighbours and grudging relatives. He did not know why, but standing in his room now filled him with something that instantly lightened his entire body. His hands stopped shaking, and the pain behind his eye disappeared. He looked at the bed, as Lisa had pointed. He was tired. So tired, he could barely stand…

“I guess a five minute nap couldn’t hurt.”

He fell on to the bed heavily, and within an instant he was asleep. It was a good sleep, dreamless at first. The only thing playing in his mind was a void of black, bottomless and expansive, but comforting all the same. After a while, Dean saw pictures, heard voices, but nothing he could decipher fully. When he opened his eyes again, he felt a wonderful sense of tranquility and stillness. His bed was warm and his room was light and familiar. Lisa was sat at his desk, combing her long hair with her fingers and humming a beautiful song that he swore he had heard somewhere before.

“Lisa,” he said.

She turned around, smiled at him widely. She was so beautiful.

“Hello, silly,” she teased, getting up and sitting by him. “Enjoy your nap?”

“I had the… weirdest dream,” he said, his voice gruff from slumber. “Where’s Sammy?”

“He’s in his nursery,” Lisa said, her voice gentle and reassuring, “and your dad’s out with Caleb, don’t you remember?”

“Yeah…” Dean said slowly, his mind still foggy. He had been late getting home tonight. John had been angry—drunk again, and he had stormed into Sam’s room afterwards, the storm so loud and heavy against the nursery window. “I was… so angry with Sammy,” he continued. “He took something from me. He wouldn’t stop crying… I wished… I wished…”

“Hell-o,” Lisa called kindly in a sing-sing voice, “earth to Dean.”

His thoughts were fragmented, shielded behind fog. He looked at Lisa, the only thing that seemed real, and remembered just how much he had missed her.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry for a lot of things. I didn’t mean to stop calling. It’s not that I stopped liking you—”

“Hey.” She put a hand on his knee to shush him. “You’ve been through a lot. I mean, the fire, your mom. I’m not angry. I knew you’d come back to me, once you’d had some time.”

He took a hold of her hand and squeezed it.

“All I want is to be normal, Lisa,” he said in a whisper. “I want my dad to stop drinking. I want this house to feel like a home. I want someone I can be myself with, who won’t ask impossible things of me. I just want this pain to get a little smaller.”

“Hey… hey.” She was stroking his face now, her fingers light and cold.

“I know things seem hard now,” she said, “and the world can’t fix itself in a day. But I’m here, Dean, I always have been. And I always will.”

It was the only thing he had ever wanted to hear. He stared into her, could feel himself melting and becoming warm for the first time in this derelict house. Her hand was still on his. He took it, kissed her fingers, breathed in the scent of her perfume. She moved from across the bed, closing the space between them. She put her mouth on his, very softly. His lips felt sore and pillowy, as if they had already been kissed. He didn’t mind the pain; she was being gentle, and after a few moments, she pulled away, placing her forehead against his and breathing smoothly through a smile.

They sat like that, together, calmness washing over him in waves. He would have stayed like that for the rest of time, but the haziness of his dream had him stirred. Something told him he needed to see Sam, just to be close to him, and tell him he was safe—that they were both safe.

“Where are you going?” Lisa asked, as he pulled himself away and got to his feet.

“I’m gonna check on Sammy,” he said, walking towards the bedroom door.

Lisa stood up, quickly, and shielded herself against the frame. Dean frowned at her, but she was smiling sweetly, that same kind look in her eyes.

“He’s sleeping,” she assured him, “there’s no point going to his room now. Stay with me, Dean, I’ve missed you so much.”

She moved away from the door and enveloped herself in him, hugging him tightly. When he looked at her again, the kindness had gone from her eyes. She was teasing him from under her lashes, biting her lip—her expression wilting and full of need.

“I can’t tell you how much I think about you,” she said then, her voice low and silky. “Especially at night, when I’m alone in my bed…”

She kissed him again, and any thought of Sam disappeared. They collapsed on to the bed, their legs locked together, their hands running through each others’ hair. Dean ignored the pain and kissed her harder, desperate to get closer, to show her that the fire had not completely destroyed him.

He pulled off her top, unbuckled her bra with hasty clumsiness. He brought his lips to her chest, leaving kisses across her rosebud breasts. Lisa sighed from above him, tilting her head back so her long brown hair fell down her shoulders and tickled his cheeks. He had wasted so much time being angry, Dean thought, that he had forgotten what was important, the people who had been waiting for him all this time. He brought his hand to the cusp of her jeans and unbuttoned it, Lisa sighing again as he lead his fingers under the soft lace of her panties. She was already sodden, and the warmth of her stirred Dean instantly. He grabbed a hold of her and swung her on her back. He pulled down her jeans and threw them to the ground. Lisa’s giggles were immediately halted as he put his face down to taste her. There was a silence, a sharp intake of breath, and within a moment, Lisa had filled the bedroom with a soft, rhapsodic sigh.

The rise and fall of her stomach grew faster, shakier. Her toes curled, and her fingers wrapped around a clump of Dean’s hair until she was tugging. Her sighs turned into moans, and her body writhed beneath him as she approached her peak. Within a moment, she had brought her legs together, enclosing Dean in a shell of warmth, and shuddered into him, her moan long and airy, and as sweet as the taste between her thighs.

When he pulled away, Lisa was panting softly and giggling from behind her hand. Dean smiled back. He had missed this: the easiness of loving her. She brought herself upwards and kissed him lightly. She was giggling again.

“Get on your back, Dean Winchester,” she commanded playfully.

He lay down, his head on his pillow as Lisa began to unbuckle him. He was as stiff as a rock, and Lisa wasted little time with teasing him. She put her mouth around his hardness, moaning with him. Dean closed his eyes, pleasure eclipsing every thought he’d had until that moment. He turned his head to the side, biting his lip between each breath. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking at the used bedside table that had been given to him after the fire. It was a mess of magazines and cassette tapes, an overturned bottle of water that hadn’t been cleaned out in weeks—but there was something else, resting over the spine of an aging book, that caught his eye. It was his amulet, staring blankly out across the room. One of its horns seemed longer than the other, the right side lopsided and edging at an odd angle. He picked it up, and brought it closer to him. The gold pigment seemed new and freshly-painted, the string around it was of a thicker material. Even the face itself seemed different, like it could not see him, but was staring at something else far away.

“My amulet…” he said quietly. Lisa tilted her head up, and looked at him disgruntledly.

“What are you talking about, Dean?”

He ignored her tone. He could not look away from the amulet.

“Its face…” he said searchingly, more to himself, “it’s different.”

Lisa tried to smile, but her eyes were hardening. She stroked him, but he was no longer throbbing like he had been.

“Come on, Dean,” she smiled through gritted teeth. “I’m not gonna wait forever.”

Lisa no longer held his interest. He looked around his room, studying its layout, the mess, even the paint on his walls.

“My room,” he breathed uncertainly, “it… it’s different. My posters are in the wrong order. I never leave my guitar out of its case.” He stood up, walked towards the window where the curtains had been drawn. He pulled them apart, expecting to be greeted by an overgrown garden with a rusted swing-set. Instead, the sky was dark, and his vision was blurred by a tall tree which dead leaves stroked the glass.

“The view…” he called, “There never used to be a tree here.”

He turned around. The more he looked, the more things he found that were wrong with the bedroom.

“This isn’t my room,” he said finally.

Lisa shifted on the bed, staring at him firmly.

“Dean,” she said.

“You’re not Lisa.”

She stood up, looking anxious.

“How can you say that?” she asked, crestfallen. But Dean ignored her, and instead walked towards the mirrored bedroom’s door.

“Wait, stop!” she called, and once again shielded herself against the frame, which had been painted a different shade of white.

“Get out of my way,” he clamoured, his hands scrambling for the doorknob, “I need to find my brother!”

The mirrored Lisa held her body in place, her fists enclosed around the handle.

“There’s no need to wake him!” she said in a shrill voice that was unlike her own.

“I said, get out of my way!” Dean yelled, grabbing her hands away from the door and pushing her backwards.

Lisa screamed from behind him, her voice no longer the sweet, girlish resonance that had giggled at him from behind a soft, perfumed palm. When Dean turned around, he was not looking at the beautiful girl with long brown hair and rosebud breasts, but an ancient creature with sagging, grey-coloured skin and patches of white hair falling from her head in rattails.

“YOU—WILL NOT—LEAVE—THIS— _BEDROOM_!” she screeched, lunging towards him with yellow fingernails as sharp as knife-edges.

Dean stumbled backwards, out through the mirrored door, and on to sharp, rusted ground. The creature screamed at him, her mouth opened in a wide snarl of rotting fangs. Dean brought up a boot, and kicked the door closed with all his might. It slammed shut, the creature raging from behind it, but as she did, cracks began to creep up across the walls. Dean could hear the familiar sound of crumbling foundations, and the ground began to shake. He got to his feet and rushed backwards; by the time he turned around the mirrored bedroom had collapsed within itself, and the voice of the creature had died amongst the rubble.

He was standing in the junk yard again. He turned around; far ahead, behind a sea of trees and high stone walls, stood a castle. He shook his head wildly, any last semblance of the amulet’s spell disappearing. His mind was clear once more. He knew what he needed to do—but his bag was missing, and so all of his weapons, and the ingredients in the glass vial, were gone. He could go no further without them, he realised with growing dread. He put his head in his hands, trying to remember the events before the junkyard, before the ballroom, before Castiel.

The forest. They had been in the forest when Meg had given him back his amulet. He would have to go back there. It was his only hope.

“Dean? Dean?”

There were voices, calling him from far away. He looked around him recklessly, almost tripping over the mass of junk towering like a spire beside him. He followed the noise blindly, desperate to get out of this horrible place.

“Dean?”

He could make out the voice more clearly, now. It was a woman’s.

“Jo?” he called back hopefully.

“Is that you, Dean?”

Hope surged within him. He ran heavily through the yard towards Jo’s direction.

“Yes,” he yelled, excitement mounting, “hold on!”

He had reached the edge of the clearing. There, a few yards ahead, stood the figures of Jo, Ash and Bobby, all looking in different ways in the hopes of spotting him. Ash was the first to notice him. He grinned goofily.

“Dean!”

He ran to the group, engulfing the three in a hug that almost winded them. As he pulled away, his grin fell from the looks on their faces. They were staring at him with worried, taut expressions, and he wondered just how much he could get away with not telling them.

“What happened to you?” asked Jo seriously.

He faltered.

“Meg,” he said, finally settling on an answer, “she, she tried to hurt me.”

“What?”

Bobby raised his eyebrows.

“Tell us what happened, boy.”

He dithered, but the stern look on their faces forced him to speak.

“The amulet that I traded with the two wise men… she—she gave it back,” Dean started slowly, “but it was different. Enchanted. As soon as I put it on I passed out.”

_Then I woke up in a ballroom where Castiel was waiting for me, and we danced, and then he fucked me against a sun set and asked me to stay forever, to rule as a king by his side._

“I don’t remember anything after that,” Dean finished unsettlingly, “other than waking up in that junk yard and hearing you guys call for me.”

No one could ever know what really happened after he put on that amulet. Castiel, even Lisa, whose once sweet taste now turned to ash in his mouth, had to remain a secret. The others, Jo, Ash, and Bobby, who were all looking at him with expressions of awe and concern, would never understand.

Jo broke the silence, folding her arms and scowling.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let her across that bridge.”

Ash nodded, but Bobby seemed conflicted.

“Why would she do that?” he questioned. “She really seemed like she was trying to help you.”

“Demon’s lie,” said Jo bluntly.

It was the end of that conversation. Whatever Meg’s reasons were, she had had an inkling of what she was doing once Dean had put the amulet on, but she had seemed so distraught when she had left him, lying their amidst the trees. He didn’t know what to think.

Dean’s thoughts were interrupted by a small, brown knapsack hanging from across Jo’s shoulder.

“My bag!”

He took it from her gratefully. Rooting around inside, he found everything the same as he had left it. He clutched the dagger for reassurance, and it vibrated in his hand.

“When we’d noticed you’d gone, we back-tracked into the forest,” said Bobby. “All we found was your bag and these weapons.”

On Ash were the bow and arrows, and Jo had the bottle of Fire Breath in her hands.

“Did you see Meg?” asked Dean timidly, but Bobby shook his head.

“No. Wherever she is, she’s long gone now.”

“Good riddance,’ said Jo, and Ash nodded.

Dean and Bobby looked at each other. They both knew it was more complicated than that, that Meg wasn’t just some demon only out for herself—but they couldn’t say these things aloud, not in front of the others, who were so sure of the way things worked in Castiel’s world, that they would not hear a different word about it.

“Come on,” said Jo finally. “We’re not far from the Tower.”

They turned around, and began walking, but their easy jesting of before had diminished, and now the group journeyed in silence.

 _You can move on now_ , Dean said to himself, as he began to follow the others. _Forget it ever happened._

He walked, but another voice inside him made him stop.

 _But you don’t want to forget_ , it said—and Dean was ashamed to realise that it was the truth.

* * *

She was running, stumbling, tears dried and cracking on her pale face. She was never to go back into the labyrinth again. She was going to the safety of the entrance, where the air was still and her only company were rocks and tumbleweeds. The door was where she was meant to be, for she could not disappoint dust; she could not betray the wind.

“Meg.”

Someone had called her name from beside her. She screamed, her boots skidding in the mud, almost toppling her across it. She looked beside her. The king was standing against a tree with his arms crossed. His blue eyes looked grey and sunken, and there were more lines on his face than she had noted before.

“Castiel?”

“Where are you going, Meg?” he asked, but his voice did not veil its usual smugness. He sounded exhausted.

“I’m going back to the door where I belong!” she cried, and she had to bite her lip to stop from crying again. “I gave Dean back his amulet. I left him there, as he called after me. What did you do to it?”

Castiel held her gaze for a second before turning away. He looked towards the edge of the forest, where Meg and Dean had been. He spoke in a cracked whisper:

“Not enough.”

She hated him like this, this new way of tormented weakness, the pitiful tragedy of failing.

“You promised me,” she seethed, with newfound anger, “if I gave it to him, you’d let her go.”

“I’ll let her go,” said Castiel at once. “When Dean reaches the city.”

“What?”

The king stared her down, his cold authority returning.

“Go back to him,” he demanded in a sullen drawl. “Show him the way. That is an order.”

“You _want_ to lose?”

“The things I want,” he said quietly, “the likes of you could never understand.”

He disappeared, then, in smoke that tarnished the air long after he had abandoned it. Meg was left gawping at the clearing, torn between the safety of the door and a chance to see the prince again, to tell him she was sorry, to end this once and for all.


	18. The Tower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to say a huge thank you to whoever voted for this fic on Unforth’s Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection on Tumblr. It honestly means the world to me to know that someone is enjoying this fic enough to want to rec it to other fans of the show/pairing. Thank you again!

Dean did not walk in step with the others. He was trailing behind, just as Meg had done in the forest. He knew how she felt, now; like he did not belong, like his secret was as fragile as a drop of rain—and if he got too close, it would fall.

“Hurry up, Dean,” Jo called ahead of him impatiently. “We don’t wanna lose you again.”

She had been in bad spirits ever since their reunion at the junk yard. Angry at Meg, at her allowance for the demon to leave with them. But Dean also thought that she may be angry at him, too, because she knew he was keeping something from them. Not that he would ever tell.

“Sorry,” he said after her, shuffling forwards.

They were in another forest, the trees lush sycamores. Dean tried to look through the leaves, hoping to see a sign of the tower. He could see nothing but light, and it was shining in through the bract and lacing the ground, make the dust in the air shine like glitter.

“How far to the tower?” he asked Jo, waving a hand through the particles and watching them dance.

“Not long,” she replied tersely. “Just past these trees.”

He nodded, hoping she would elaborate, but she didn’t.

“It’s so quiet,” he said after a moment’s silence. Jo breathed heavily through her nose.

“I’ll imagine Castiel is summoning the remaining demons to the city about now.”

Of course; Dean would have to get through Castiel’s demons before he got anywhere near his brother. He wondered what the king was doing in that instant. Was he at the castle, barking away a battle plan to his followers? Was he counting down the hours till he would see Dean again? Even if he didn’t speak it aloud, their time in the ballroom had changed everything. When he finally breached the city and was faced with the man with the beautiful blue eyes, what would he say to him? Dean’s brows furrowed absentmindedly, his expression tangled. Would he kiss the king before he killed him?

“What are you thinking about?” Jo asked him. Dean blinked.

“Just…” he started, “how many demons are there all together?”

The girl let out a humourless laugh.

“If I could guess? Thousands.”

He had managed to kill a crowd of demons, dozens—but thousands, all at once? Dean’s stomach knotted at the thought.

“And they’re all waiting for us?”

“Yup,” Jo nodded curtly, but her eyes were softening. “You scared yet?”

He didn’t reply. The last time he had seen the king, Castiel had offered him a chance to stay in the labyrinth forever—not as a captive, but a ruler. The creatures he was to fight would instead bend the knee and serve Dean for the rest of time. It was a strange thought, and Dean no longer noticed Jo, who was staring at him with a rallied look on her face.

“Hey,” she said, mistaking his silence for dismay, “it’s okay, Dean. You can win this—and you will.”

He smiled quickly, not wanting to meet her eye in case his thoughts betrayed him.

“Thanks.”

The moment ended when the trees parted and Dean could see what lay behind them: a tower, huge, black, and surrounded by a wall of spears. It seemed out of place against the lush green field it stood upon.

“That’s the tower?” he asked, bewildered. “It’s huge. How did we not see it until now?”

“The king’s magic,” Bobby said uneasily. “There’s something in there he doesn’t want people to find.”

They stepped out of the forest and down the hill. Approaching the speared fence, Dean noticed a gate. He crept over to it and shook it softly. The gate loosened and began to open.

“The gate’s unlocked,” he said, stepping through.

“Wait!” Jo whispered tensely. “Dean, hold back a little.”

Before he could ask why, Dean was met by the sight of two men, pacing in time with each other around the tower. They were dressed in finery that had turned to rags, stained with blood so old it had become part of the fabric. They did not appear to be demons; they wore their eyes like Dean and the rest of the souls. But they weren’t just souls. Dean could tell that immediately.

“Who are they?”

He had fallen back, brought himself down into a crouch next to the others. He kept his voice quiet and did not take his eyes off the two men.

“Remember at the Pool,” Jo began, “when Bobby asked me to leave with you?”

Dean nodded.

“You were scared to.”

Jo sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly.

“When Castiel made me a half-soul,” she explained, “he bound me to my duty of guarding the bridge. He told me, if I ever abandoned it, I would be transformed into something else.”

“What?”

She pointed to the two men pacing the tower.

“Those things right there.”

He looked.

“But what are they?”

Jo’s voice fell even quieter, and Dean had to hold his breath just to hear her.

“When Castiel became king and attempted to create half-souls for the first time, the magic of this place backfired on him, and he created something else.” She faltered, her expression nervous. “Something that could be trapped, but never controlled.”

He studied the man nearest to them. He was taller than the other, with wide, deep-set eyes. His skin was dark and his face handsome and proud, but also menacing, and Dean felt cold just to look at him.

“Those are quarter-souls,” Jo continued. “Powerful, but wrong. Impossible to tame. They guard the tower because they can’t leave it. I doubt they feel any loyalty towards Castiel, but they will still try to slaughter us if we come near.”

Dean clutched the outline of his ancient dagger.

“I have weapons,” he said resolutely. “I can kill them.”

Bobby huffed from beside him.

“Not on your own, you won’t.”

“But I can’t die.”

Ash sniffed from beside him.

“Quarter-souls are creative.”

He knew they would not let him in that tower alone. Jo had risked transformation in order to help him; she would not stop now, and neither would Ash or Bobby.

“Here,” he said, unleashing his weapons. “Take these.”

He handed Jo the bow; Bobby the bottle of Fire Breath.

“Ash,” he started apologetically. “I don’t have enough.”

“Ash is smart,” Jo spoke for him. “He’ll hide. Run if he has to.”

Dean nodded. He stood up, and opened the gate.

“TRESPASSERS!”

A screech, so loud it echoed the ground and disturbed the tiny rocks that settled there. Dean’s heart shuddered in his chest. The man that had spoken was staring at them savagely; heavily-built and bald-headed. The man Dean had noted before put a hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Quiet, Uriel,” he said, and his voice resounded around the tower, echoing as if they were stood at the edge of a precipice.

He turned from the other and stared down at Dean, his dark eyes sawing into him like a fresh blade.

“My brother is right,” he continued, “you are trespassing on this land.”

Dean clutched at the dagger.

“I need to get into the tower,” he said, his tone hard and unwavering. The man simply looked at him, while his brother seethed and panted.

“We cannot allow that,” he said plainly. Dean squeezed his knife again in reassurance.

“And I can’t allow you to stand in my way.”

Uriel roared.

“Let me kill him, Raphael!” he begged, his voice as loud as thunder. “He underestimates our authority!”

“Settle, brother,” Raphael soothed. “Do you know who we are speaking to?”

“I know who he is!” bellowed Uriel. “The Righteous Prince, Chosen One, son of the Burned Woman!”

“Those are monikers created by people unwilling to accept their saviour is just a human,” replied Raphael indifferently. He looked at Dean, then, pierced him with his deep, brown eyes.

“You are not special,” he told him. “You are not chosen. Your name is Dean Winchester, and you are trespassing. We will kill you for that—and your friends.”

“You don’t owe the king anything,” tried Dean. “Look at what he’s done to you. Trapped you here forever! If you let us pass, I promise we will spare you.”

Raphael studied him a while, as if to contemplate his offer. After a moment, however, he shook his head once, slowly.

“You are trespassing,” he said finally.

“Dean…” Jo twitched from beside him, her finger begging towards the string of her bow.

“It’s okay,” Dean whispered, but he, too, was clutching his dagger fiercely.

“Tear them apart,” he heard Raphael say, and within an instant, Uriel had leapt from his spot and pounced at him like an animal at its food.

Dean threw himself out of the way, Uriel’s nails digging into him as he caught his side. The quarter-soul roared in frustration, settling his body towards the boy, preparing to lunge once more.

“Hey!”

Uriel looked as Jo called him, her bow ready. Within an instant, the arrow was unleashed, the tip blazed in orange light. It plunged itself straight into Uriel’s chest, and the man fell backwards, screaming in pain. Raphael rose, then, bigger than he had ever been before. He set towards Jo, but not before his brother rose, teeth grit and panting with fury.

“SHE IS MINE!” he roared, and threw himself on Jo.

“Jo!”

Ash had appeared from his hiding place, shock and fear striking his pale face as he ran towards the battle and surged himself on top of the quarter-soul. Without a weapon, he had nothing but his fists to fight with, and he beat them pathetically against Uriel’s shoulders. The man arose, picking Ash up by the scruff of his shirt. Within an instant, he had thrown Ash into the wall of the tower, so hard that the brick crumbled and fell with him. His body landed loudly on to the ground below, and lay there, broken and unmoving.

“Ash!”

Jo had stood up, her face covered in blood. Dean watched Ash, desperate for a sign that he still breathed—but his chest remained as still as stone.

“You killed him!” Jo screamed, her voice echoing with pain and hatred, shattering the land of its existence, the rules now broken.

“Uriel!”

Before his brother could warn him, Jo had thrown herself on top of him, stabbing him in the neck with the blazing arrow. He fell to the ground, and Raphael grabbed on to her.

“You have brought death to my tower,” he breathed slowly, wrapping his long fingers around Jo’s neck.

“Get your hands off her!” Dean boomed, and he lunged his knife at Raphael’s chest.

The quarter-soul appeared not to feel it, and instead wrapped his fingers tighter.

“If I use this stuff I’ll set them both alight!” cried Bobby, the Fire Breath waving menacingly in its bottle.

“Brother…”

Uriel was still alive, breathing heavily through gurgled breaths. Blood pooled from his wounds, out of his mouth and nose. Immediately, Raphael faltered, and before he could say a word, Jo had unsheathed another arrow and fired it directly between the dying brother’s eyes. He died instantly, his gaze on Raphael as if still begging for him to save him.

Dean’s heart stopped beating. Raphael still had his hands on Jo, ready to kill at a moment’s notice. But instead, he set her down.

“Wait.” Raphael commanded. “Put down your weapons.”

Jo struggled to her feet, tears and blood streaming down her face.

“I’ll kill you!”

“Dean Winchester,” Raphael said, pointing a finger at Jo, “control her.”

Dean rushed towards her, grabbing at the arrow. She struggled in his arms, hitting him roughly.

“Jo,” he said urgently. “Please. Give it to me.”

She began to sob, her body heaving and heavy against him.

“They killed Ash…”

Her arms limped, and she dropped the arrow. Dean held her, burying herself in her neck.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Both sides have losses,” began Raphael, staring at the two bodies that littered the tower. “My brother is dead. Your friend is dead. The king’s magic is broken. I have no choice but to believe you are as the prophecy says. I will let you into the tower, but only you.”

His shoulders fell, the hardness in his eyes softening just a little.

“I feel something inside me loosen,” he said then, the tone of his voice conflicted, dazed. “Like a shackle finally opening. I no longer feel constrained to this place. If you’ll allow it, the quarter-souls will fight with you in the closing battle, for there are more of us who guard the things that make the king ashamed. I feel… hatred towards the king. He was not strong enough to make us right, so he abandoned us like he did the girl in the tower. Will you accept us with you at the end?”

“Dean,” Jo cried from beside him. “No. They killed Ash.”

She went over to him, setting herself down and lifting him to her like a child to its mother. Dean stared down at the man’s broken form in her arms. Jo was sobbing, clutching at him pathetically. She would not forgive him for this, but it was something he had to do.

“We killed Uriel,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, Jo. I can’t say no to him.”

He turned to the quarter-soul, and nodded at him gravely.

“Raphael,” he said, “I accept you with us. I will call you when we reach the city.”

Raphael bowed, and Jo sobbed louder from beside them.

“Yes, Prince,” the quarter-soul said.

Dean turned to look back at what remained of his group. Bobby was shaken and exhausted, and Jo was crying softly into the tuft of Ash’s neck.

“I’m going up,” he said. Jo sniffed, but refused to look at him.

He faltered, tried to find the words to apologise, to make things right, but nothing came. Bobby patted his shoulder and tried to give him a smile.

“We’ll wait for you down here,” he said. “Go on, boy, no need to waste any more time.”

* * *

He had been a fool to place his trust in that idiot demon, Alastair. Zachariah scratched his head as he studied the lifeless forms of the demon and his bone-headed followers. They had seemed so threatening before, but now, they looked pathetic, broken and bloody on the labyrinth’s floor.

“Oh, Alastair,” he said, bending down by the leader, whose eyes were staring at him like glazed mirrors. “At least you died doing what you loved.”

He took a hold of Alastair’s rigid hand, pulling out of it the sharp tool he clutched to him so desperately, even in death. It was an aged weapon, but well looked after. It was Zachariah’s now, and, if he played his cards right, he could use it as his bargaining chip into Castiel’s city. He had many things he wanted to say to the king, and though he had not the authority to summon Castiel to speak with him in the labyrinth, surely the man would have some respect for him now! The last time he had seen Dean, the boy was scrambling to breaking rock, falling through the quake, screaming and begging for dear life. It had reminded Zachariah of the trap door Dean had fallen through after their first meeting. It was a fond thought of his, one he imagined regularly, and the half-soul smiled relishingly at the memory.

It was a short journey to the city gates, for he had only had to mark the ground past the seventh eye-shaped stone, and the floor had opened up for him like the arms of a cherished friend. The gate was a huge contraption, meticulously structured, and marked with etches of their proud, beautiful king, carved in welcome to the demons who wished to enter the city. It truly was a sight to behold. Zachariah turned around, and, indeed, the entire length of the labyrinth was visible from the perch he stood upon, like the city was a mountain forged without tools, and existed simply because the world had willed it to.

The gate was unguarded, and Zachariah took a few steps forward, placing his chubby hands on the iron.

“Who goes?”

He jumped, almost falling backwards. The half-soul scrambled to his feet, rubbed down his ripped suit with fervour, and tried to stare confidently at the figure who had just spoken. The gash on his throat seemed to burn as he looked into her, and Zachariah cursed his appearance silently: dirty and bloody, no way to look when faced by a woman as beautiful as this one.

“My lady Lilith,” he said, bowing low, “the stories do you no justice. You truly are divinity.”

She looked back at him blankly, her long hair golden and her eyes a milky white—a stark contrast to the rest of her kin, who all wore their eyes as black as blindness.

“I am not a lady. I am a demon.”

“And you are the most _beautiful_ demon this half-soul has ever laid eyes on.”

He was still talking to her with his head bowed, anxious to move too quickly. She really was a goddess: her face smooth and her features classic, like a sculpture carved into porcelain. Her garb was glittering white, long and fluttering. Her nipples were visible behind the silk. Zachariah had to stop himself from gawping, from staring at her form too salaciously. He dropped his eyes to the variety of weapons sheathed around a thick black belt that she wore on her waist, from mighty swords to delicate cutlasses, curved scythes and chain-blades.

“Which begs the question,” she spoke then, her voice feminine but resonating in authority. “Why is a half-soul laying his eyes on me? Non-demons are not allowed entry into the city.”

“I know that, Lilith,” Zachariah replied, afraid to meet her gaze. “I know that very well. But, you see, I have served the king quite loyally since our little, uh, visitor arrived, and I have some things I’d like to discuss with him.”

His answer was displeasing; he knew it immediately. Lilith crossed her arms and the whole labyrinth seemed to darken.

“Discuss?” she asked fiercely. “Discuss? You’re not telling me you have come here, forced me from my leisure, because you want to bother the king with discussions of obedience?”

Zachariah held out his hands, shook his head, forced himself to bow even lower.

“It is not like that, I swear! I could be a great asset to his lordship—much more so than at my place as a door guard.”

Lilith raised her thin, shapely brows. He had displeased her again.

“Not that a door guard is not important,” he went on, flustered, “quite the contrary! I only mean, my talents lie else where...”

“And why do you think,” Lilith asked slowly, “I will let you inside, when the king explicitly prohibits non-demons from entering?”

Zachariah smiled, then, putting a hand in his pocket.

“Well, I—and forgive my impudence—but I brought you a gift.”

He pulled out his hand, his fingers wrapped around an ancient weapon, smaller than his palm, but clinquant with the artistry of its design.

“You see, on my travels I came across this queer little tool, and it struck my interest.”

Lilith’s white eyes seemed to glow in the half-light, her pride forgotten—her expression hungry.

“Alastair’s tool…”

“Yes,” acknowledged Zachariah, his lips still curved in smugness. “He is dead, now. Not by my hand, regrettably, but I came across this weapon, and, even in death, he seemed rather fond of it. I figured it must be valuable.”

Lilith took a step forward, her hands out in eagerness. She faltered, remembering her place, but she did not remove her eyes away from the tool.

“Do you know the amount of people he used this on?” she asked the half-soul longingly. “How much blood it has tasted in its life time? This was, indeed, Alastair’s favourite tool. I have long admired it, but the madman never did let me get too close.”

“Then I think it only right I give it to you,” said Zachariah, handing it to her. “A beautiful woman deserves beautiful things.”

He knew he had won. Zachariah did not do things without ardently planning them first, and although he had originally thought Alastair more use to him alive than dead, he realised now, just how perfectly his plan had fallen together—and he had barely had to lift a finger. Lilith was holding the weapon close to her, stroking it with a marbled hand. For a moment, it seemed she had forgotten Zachariah was still there, but a slight huff of his throat tore her eyes away and on to his smirking form. She despised him for bribing her, but Alastair’s tool was far too valuable an offering to refuse. She grit her teeth.

“Make your business quick, half-soul.”

The mighty gate opened. She stepped aside, allowing the man passage. He bowed once more before passing through.

“Oh, it will be. Thank you, your divinity.”

The city was even more spectacular than he’d imagined. The tall walls that guarded it had truly hidden the beauty of the inside formation. Rows of rickety-built houses seamed the entrance, small and mismatched. The demons who lived in them seemed to be the poorer, more depraved inhabitants of Castiel’s city. To his left, Zachariah saw two demons sparring in a hand-made pit, surrounded by a roaring, betting crowd. Demon women in loose, torn dresses straddled their companions, kissing them thirstily, running their hands down their dirtied waists and cupping their groins. Zachariah loved the carnality of it, the filthy desperation. But he knew, once Castiel granted him a home here, he would not consort with this type of commonality.

Zachariah continued walking, leaving behind the decrepit houses and approaching structures of grander arrangement. The buildings were high and wide, framed with dark wood and smooth stone, windows reflecting the shrouded sun like water. The demons here were better dressed, hooded in cloaks of fur, walking in shoes with heels and golden buckles. Zachariah’s own suit was brown instead of black, covered in a layer of dust and grime. The arms were ripped, and his shirt was stained in the blood from his neck wound. The demons followed his form with apathetic repugnance, but none approached him. Once the king granted his prize, these demons would never bear to look at him, for he would be something to fear, not deride. He’d show them.

Finally, the row of estates dispersed behind Zachariah, leaving only the castle to stand before him. It was even bigger than he had imagined, for he had often watched the castle from a perch far away, pondering the life he could yet live inside it. The stone was sand-coloured, flawlessly placed, with hundreds of carvings inscribed within them. He approached the castle steps, where two guards were standing holding long swords and dressed in armour. Placing a foot on the stairs, the demons turned to look at him, pointing their swords inches from his face.

“Who are you?” the first one asked.

Zachariah despised the discourtesy in the guard’s voice. After he was finished speaking with Castiel, he would have this demon sent to the Pool.

“I am Zachariah,” he answered hotly, “and quite your superior, so I’d appreciate it if you moved aside. I have to see the king.”

The second demon laughed—he too would be sent to the Pool for his audacity.

“Have to see the king, do ya? What makes you so important?”

The half-soul was about to argue when he heard a voice from behind him.

“Zachariah?”

The short, pudgy figure of the king’s servant stood staring at him, suspicion needing in his black, piggish eyes.

“Crowley!” Zachariah said, swallowing his distaste as he pulled the servant into an embrace. “My old friend! How long has it been, now?”

Crowley shrugged him off.

“How did you get into the city?” he asked, patting off the dried blood and mud that now stained his robes.

“Charm and tribute,” grinned Zachariah, trying his upmost to ignore the contempt in Crowley’s voice. “The demoness really is a fickle woman.”

The servant’s eyes widened, horrified.

“How dare you! She is—”

“Quite out of earshot, Crowley, so calm down,” interrupted Zachariah. He had grown weary of his false civility. He spoke now, unsmiling.

“I have come to speak to the king. I have made it this far; I will not be turned away now.”

Crowley scowled, opened his mouth as if to argue, then thought better of it.

“Fine,” he said sorely. Zachariah’s smug grin returned. “Boys, open the door.”

The demons looked hesitant, but moved away from the door regardless.

“As you wish, sir.”

The demon and the half-soul walked together through the grand hallway. Beautiful paintings of Castiel adorned the walls, and Zachariah stared into them, imagining how his own portrait would look.

Crowley shuffled from beside him.

“I’ll warn you now,” he said tensely, “the king isn’t in the best of moods.”

“Oh,” breathed Zachariah, “I’m sure I’ll cheer him up somehow.”

They had reached the door of the throne room. Crowley opened it, and Zachariah felt his heart stop in his chest as he stared at the form of the king, who was sitting sluggishly against his thorned seat. They walked towards him, Zachariah noting the king’s handsome features, the soft wrinkles around his eyes, his sharp, pointed nose, and his lips; pale, slightly swollen, downturned in a frown.

“Your Majesty,” bowed Crowley, “may I introduce—”

“Oh, there is no need of that, Crowley,” interrupted Zachariah with a wave of his hand. “The king knows very well who I am.”

He smiled confidently at the king, his hands rested against his hips. Castiel simply stared at him, saying nothing.

“Zachariah,” the half-soul said slowly, his smile wavering. Still, the king did not react.

“You made me a half-soul,” he went on, his mouth now aching. When the king’s expression remained blank, Zachariah could hear Crowley snigger from beside him. It took every ounce of self control not to tear him apart right there, but with one last painful smile, he said with desperation: “I know how to get places.”

With that, Castiel rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes, yes, fine,” he said quickly, “I remember. What do you want?”

Zachariah cleared his throat gruffly. The demons around him were laughing from behind closed hands, but he refused to acknowledge them.

“Could we speak in private?”

Castiel looked riled.

“Is that a demand?”

The half-soul shuddered slightly, and raised his hands in rebuttal.

“Oh, my Lord,” he said wildly, “of course not! Only, what I have to tell you is quite paramount, and your ears are the only ones deserving of it!”

Castiel scowled at him, breathing out bitterly.

“Fine,” he said, boredom lacing his voice into monotone. “Demons, clear out! And you, Crowley.”

Zachariah fought a smile as the servant glowered from beside him. He was the last to leave, made known by the slam of the throne room door as he disappeared behind it.

“So,” said Castiel after a moment’s silence, “what is it you want to tell me?”

Zachariah bowed low.

“My Lord,” he said, his face close to the ground, “I know I am not a demon. The magic that compels them to you does not affect me, but, it has not stopped the loyalty I feel for you.” He raised his head once more, saw Castiel staring at him with a sullen, bothered expression. “I have done many things since Dean Winchester tainted your land with his… delusions of grandeur,” Zachariah went on, and his heartbeat quickened at the change in the king’s eyes as he heard the prince’s name. “I trapped him in the oubliette. I fed him to the torturer. I followed him, changed his course, watched him fail, again and again. And I did something else for you, Master…” he bowed again, couldn’t stop himself from grinning. “I found his mother.”

“Mary?”

Castiel was now sitting up-right in his seat, his attention fully on Zachariah. The half-soul nodded slowly, revelling the king’s new-found fascination.

“Yes,” he said. “There were rumours of her existence in the labyrinth, but no one knew for certain, until I found her, your Majesty, and I can take you to her. She is your weapon to use!” Zachariah was frenzied now, drunk on the power he had over Castiel. “If we rally her against the prince, he will surely fail, and you will be king for ever more!”

The king was processing his words, the silence deafening.

“You would do that for me?” he asked finally. “Surely, you will want something in return for such devotion?”

Zachariah grinned. If he had his way, he would throw Castiel from his throne and seat himself upon it that instant, but patience was a virtue, and he knew his time would come eventually.

“Well, yes, my Lord, I admit it,” he spoke, his voice hungry. “Mary is… a very beautiful woman, and in return, I would wish her for my own, to marry her, and for us to live here in the city.”

The king raised his eyebrows at Zachariah’s request.

“You want to marry her?”

The half-soul bowed slightly.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Do you love her?”

It was an odd question, and Zachariah’s smile faltered on his cheeks.

“Love her?” he asked uncertainly. “No, I—”

“Then why do you want her as your wife?”

He dared himself to look at the king, whose own smile was now unwavering.

“Well, I—”

“Have you asked her if she wants to marry you?”

“No,” Zachariah said in a small voice, “I haven’t.”

“It seems you have not thought this through, Zachariah,” said Castiel, and he stood up from his throne and walked the stone steps down to him. He was looking at the half-soul with a dark expression, and Zachariah felt his knees begin to shake. Images of Mary, his painted face mounted on the castle walls, began to disappear into a sea of blackness.

“My Lord,” he begged, “I am offering you a sure-fire way of winning this battle! I have done nothing but serve you! My king… I did it—” Zachariah pleaded desperately, getting to his knees, “all of it—for you!”

“But I never asked you to,” Castiel said wickedly, and with a twist of his hands, he had broken Zachariah’s neck.

* * *

The stairs were long and winding, and Dean soon lost count. A strange sense of uneasiness had settled itself in his stomach, deepening with every stride. He knew there was a girl waiting for him at the top of the tower, and, whoever she was, Castiel had not wanted her found.

He continued to climb, a dull pain kneading itself in the boy’s legs. It was quiet; all that filled Dean’s ears were the sounds of his own footsteps against the stone.

At long last, he reached the landing. In front of him was a door, unlocked, waiting to be opened by a worn brass handle. He reached for it, his fingers trembling. The door swung open slowly, and stood before him in a room dusty and cold, was a girl with fiery red hair, and eyes that were blue and sad, and very familiar. She smiled, like she had been expecting him.

“Hello, Dean,” she said kindly. She spoke with a softness, barely a whimper. “I thought it was you outside my window. You killed Uriel.”

Dean blinked. He did not know if this saddened or pleased her. She spoke so evenly, Dean had no idea what she could be thinking.

“Yes,” he answered simply.

“But he killed your friend,” went on the girl. “Ash, was it? I’m sorry.”

“It’s… it’s okay.”

The girl did not say anything for a while. She watched him, studying his features, his awkward way of standing.

“You’ve come a long way to find me, haven’t you?” she said finally. “You’ve killed a lot of people.”

“Did all the blood give it away?”

She laughed sadly, her blue eyes glinting in a way he had seen before and adored intensely. He forced his gaze away and looked at the floor.

“I’m Anna,” she said after a moment. “Castiel is my brother.”

He looked back at her, and the familiarity of her eyes suddenly made sense.

“Your… your brother?”

“Yes,” she said, surprised by his reaction. “Didn’t you know that already?”

“No.”

Dean had been so intent on reaching the tower, that he had not thought to ask who would be waiting for him inside it. No one had told him Castiel had a sister—perhaps they had not known… or that he was not ready to hear it.

“I am in this tower because of him,” Anna went on wistfully. “I am… the last piece of the puzzle, the final ingredient to be collected before the Righteous Weapon can be called to you.”

He stared into her blue eyes, falling into them. How much did he not know? How much had been kept from him? He saw so much of Castiel in Anna’s face that it hurt him just to look at her.

“Oh, Dean,” Anna said after a moment, her smile doleful but full of heart, “you look so lost.

“You deserve to know the man you’re destined to murder,” she said. “Let me tell you about my brother, the path he was led upon to make him the man he is today—but I fear words alone will not do his story justice. If you trust me, close your eyes.”

Dean closed them. He felt a shift, a closing of space, and then soft lips on his.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in Anna’s tower.


	19. Vial of Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! I am back :)

He was standing on a patch of dry earth, the soil bumpy and irregular under his brown workman boots.

Dean was in a place he had never been, though found himself recognising it anyway. He was in the labyrinth, that was for sure, but as the labyrinth had been before, when it had not been a maze at all.

Ahead of him were two figures, thin and sickly-looking, with black eyes and snarling faces. They were walking slowly, cornering something into a corner. Their gangling forms obscured Dean’s vision as to what they were approaching. He crept forwards, slowly, half-scared they would hear his footsteps and attack—though Dean knew that was impossible. This had all happened a long, long time ago. Dean was not a part of this memory. He was an observer, a voyeur, his only purpose to let these events unfold before his eyes.

“We can smell you,” one of the demons said, taking in a long, wheezing breath. “Fresh from the top-side.”

His companion cackled like an animal.

“New ones always smell the sweetest,” she said, her voice haggard and coarse like a witch from a fairy story.

“Especially you, pretty girl,” the first demon said. “I like your hair. S’like fire. Come closer to me. I’ll look after you.”

“She won’t be going anywhere with you.”

It was Castiel’s voice, undoubtedly.

Dean was close enough, now. There before him were the unmistakable figures of the king and his sister, the woman who had sent him to this vivid, smoky place. Dean could not take his eyes off of Castiel. Although he was the same age as the Castiel Dean knew now, he appeared leagues younger, almost unrecognisably so. He had the same black hair, the same piercing blue eyes, but there was something about him that was different, irrevocably so. It made Dean hungry. His fingers ached to touch him, to run his hand through Castiel’s hair. He raised his hand, he almost did, but in that moment Castiel’s eyes almost seem to flicker to his. Dean jumped, and his hand fell away.

“Is that so?” the demon said, his black lips curved into a smile. “I can make her. I can make her do anything I want.”

Castiel’s eyes hardened, and Dean was reminded of the man he was now.

“I’ll kill you first,” he said.

The demons laughed, then, a cold, grating cry.

“Did you hear that, Lawrence?” the demon woman guffawed. “New fish forgets where he lives now.” She approached him, put a clawed finger against his cheek. Castiel shook her off with disgust, but the demon only laughed. “This isn’t the world you came from, pretty boy. The rules aren’t the same. No one can die here, so snivelling souls like you need to get used to that idea before it destroys you.”

“Our advice?” the male demon said. “Get yourself Tainted as soon as possible. The advantages of being a demon are many. King Lucifer rewards those that bend the knee.”

The woman looked hungrily from Anna to Castiel.

“We can help you if you like,” she offered.

“We don’t want your help,” said Anna, her red hair flaming under the half-light of Lucifer’s world.

With that, the demon woman struck Anna hard across the face, making her fall into Castiel’s arms.

“Ungrateful little bitch!”

Castiel rose to face her, put a hand around her throat and squeezed.

“Touch my sister again…” he said darkly, tightening his grip, “and I will teach you just how cruel immortality can be.”

The woman dragged his hands away, gagged, and clutched at her bruised throat.

“Get your filthy soul hands off me!”

Castiel took a step forwards. He looked possessed. Even though he could not kill them, they knew he could do much worse.

The demon woman took a hold of her companion and started to drag him away.

“Let’s go, Lawrence. Now!”

The two scarpered, but not before the male demon turned back to snarl at Castiel and Anna once more.

“Keep that up,” he shouted, “and you’ll be a demon before you know it!”

The scene disappeared in a haze of black smoke.

Dean rubbed his eyes, when his hands fell away he realised he was standing in the small hovel that had belonged to Chuck and Becky. He saw the couple, then, standing in a corner of the room, and a pain twinged at his heart. Castiel and Anna were there as well, and the four of them were talking in hushed voices. They had all been friends, Dean realised. He didn’t know how that made him feel.

Dean stepped closer in order to better hear their conversation.

“Picking fights with demons isn’t the best way to spend your time, you know,” Chuck whispered tensely.

“As opposed to what, Chuck,” challenged Castiel, “hiding as they pillage and steal from us? I won’t live like that. Someone needs to stand up to them. To Lucifer.”

Chuck shook his head dejectedly.

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

Castiel shot his friend a dark look.

“Do you _have_ to be like that?" he asked through gritted teeth.

Chuck looked defensive.

“Like what?”

“So… cowardly.”

Chuck laughed quickly, shooting a quick glance at his wife.

“Call me coward all you want, Castiel,” he said, his tone patient, “I’m just doing what’s best for Becky. For all of us. I protect her in my own way, same as you do Anna.”

Castiel’s sister scowled slightly.

“I don’t need protecting,” she said. “Castiel’s right, though, someone needs to stand up to him.”

Chuck merely shrugged.

“Lucifer’s been king for as long as I have been here, longer than any of us even know. Do you really think someone hasn’t tried before? Tried and succeeded?”

Castiel smiled, then, a wicked tint in his eye.

“They weren’t me, though, were they?”

Castiel, Chuck and the others disappeared into a silvery haze. Once Dean’s vision had cleared, he realised he was standing in the middle of a great room, decorated in splendour, surrounded by men and women dressed in silk and jewels. Castiel was there, his head bowed, and up ahead of him, sat on a thorned throne, was a man Dean could only assume was the old king himself. He was a well-built, handsome man, with blond hair and blue eyes almost as piercing as Castiel’s. He wore a crown above his head, and he was watching Castiel with a curious, amused expression. Dean realised then, with a sharp twinge to his chest, that Azazel was standing in the room as well. He, too, was watching Castiel, except there was a dark, starved look in his yellow eyes.

“Castiel,” the king addressed. “Thank you for coming to my home.”

Castiel looked at him fearlessly, but remained somber where he stood.

“You sent for me?”

Lucifer sighed, rearranging his crown so it sat higher on his head.

“Castiel,” he said, with a hint of tiredness. “I have been watching you for some time now. You don’t like my demons, do you?”

“I have nothing against them,” Castiel replied apathetically. “They’re only following orders.”

Lucifer nodded, and smiled.

“So… the problem you have is with me?”

“It is.”

Azazel’s eyes were glittering, liquifying, as he studied Castiel’s aweless form.

“Would you care to elaborate?”

Castiel shrugged slightly.

“I suppose you could say I don’t like the way you run things.”

Lucifer nodded.

“And would you do things differently, if you were in my place?”

“I would, your Majesty.”

They stared at each other, now, testing both their daring. Lucifer looked away first.

“It’s not easy being king, you know,” he said. “I had to fight to get where I am. I had to make sacrifices. Have you had to make sacrifices?”

Castiel shook his head.

“Not yet. But I’m willing.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” said Lucifer, and his patience, his amusement, had disappeared. “You have a sister, don’t you?”

Castiel’s eyes hardened for the first time. Dean saw his fists clench beside him, and the hunger in Azazel’s face seemed to grow even more.

“Don’t involve Anna in this,” Castiel warned darkly. “You don’t have the right.”

“Oh, but I do,” Lucifer countered. “I’m the king. You know, I had a brother once. He was the sacrifice I had to make in order to rule. I look at you and I see promise, I really do, but I don’t think you have it in you to do that to Anna if she was the one who stood in your way.”

The tension in the room had ascended, shrouded the room in a dark mist that threatened to consume everything inside. Dean held his breath, aching to catch every word until he was devoured by it as well.

“Why have you summoned me?” Castiel asked in the darkness.

Lucifer shifted, his body imposing, willowy against the fog.

“I know what you’re planning to do. You’re rallying the souls of my Land in order to overthrow me. I’m going to tell you this now, Castiel, because, believe it or not, I care for my people even if they do not care for me: stop this foolishness. A million souls could rise against me, and a million would be repelled. Stop now, before the sacrifices that are made are not of your own volition, before people like Anna are hurt beyond saving. Do you understand me?”

Castiel said nothing. He simply stared at the king, until both their forms were masked in shadow, and Dean was shifted once more.

Castiel was standing over a nameless figure, a weapon in his hand that dripped dark with blood. The demon below him was wailing feebly, grasping his fingers through the soil, desperate for release, aching an escape.

“What did you do to him?!”

Chuck had grasped Castiel by the shoulders, shaking him furiously. Castiel only smiled.

“I taught him a lesson.”

Chuck closed his eyes.

“Are you mad?” he whispered tensely. “Carry on down this road and you will Taint yourself!”

The words did not faze Castiel. He looked down at the bloodied creature with a knowing look on his face.

“Maybe that’s exactly what I want.”

The smaller man rubbed his eyes and sighed loudly. When he looked back at Castiel, he looked older.

“What’s happened to you?” he asked dejectedly. “I thought you wanted to save us.”

With that, Castiel put two hands on his friend’s face.

“I do, Chuck, my friend,” he said excitedly, “I do! I don’t expect you to understand; all I ask is that you trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?”

Chuck did not speak at first. He looked into the man’s eyes, lovingly, patiently, shrouded with fear.

“Of course I do,” he replied finally, and the scene disappeared once more.

Dean was standing in the courtroom he had been inside once before, only the building was not as he had left it. It was standing tall, perhaps newly built—the walls were high and painted black, the rows of chairs empty apart from a black bench, placed high in the centre of the room. It was Death, the creature Dean had had to fight in order to collect Tess’s blood. His blind eyes stared down at Castiel, who was standing in the middle behind a mounted perch, his hands bound together with metal shackles. Death had a smile on his face, cherishing the moment.

“My name is Death,” he recited grandly. “You are here, not to die, but to be reborn… transformed into something more than what you are. Your king welcomes you, but the question remains: what have you done to taint your soul forever? Step on to the circle, Tainted. Let us see you for what you have become.”

Castiel dragged his feet on to the roost. He was clothed in nothing more than dirtied cloth trousers. His feet were bare, as was his chest. He was covered in a layer of grime and blood.

His approach of the circle shifted Death’s gaze again. His white eyes shone brilliantly as he realised who he was about to judge.

“You are Castiel,” he said slowly, deliciously. “Ah… the king told me to expect you.”

“Did he?”

Death let out a quick laugh.

“You’re the fool soul behind this so-called resistance. A waste of your time, really, for now that you’re in my grasp, Lucifer has already won.”

Castiel raised his head to meet Death’s glare, his eyes flickering with tenacity.

“Has he?” Castiel said mockingly. “I’m not so sure.”

Death sighed; his expression hardening.

“You’re boring me, Castiel. Demons are bound to the king by ancient magic. Once you’re transformed, you will have no choice but to serve him.”

Castiel shifted, the shackles around his wrists clanging together restlessly. The sound echoed, and carried high up into the depths of the ceiling. It distracted Death a moment, but the voice of his young prisoner beckoned him back to certainty.

“Like you?”

The question puzzled him, and Death raised his thin black brows.

“Excuse me?”

“Like the way _you_ serve him, Death?” Castiel almost smiled. “I know you have been here longer than any of us, before Lucifer, even. How does it feel to be his pet, doing his bidding for him in this nice little courtroom of yours?”

Death’s skeletal fingers compressed into a fist. He bashed his hand against the bench, and the noise resounded in a boom that shook the floor.

“I am nobody’s pet!” he roared. “I am my own master!”

His outburst did not seem to faze Castiel. He simply stared up at him, half amused, half smiling.

“If I were king, you would be,” he said suggestively. “It’s time there was a change, wouldn’t you agree? Surely you’re tired of the… repetition.”

Death’s anger began to reside. He pulled his long body forwards so he was leaning against the bench, watching Castiel closer.

“Go on.”

“Lucifer has a brother,” Castiel said plainly. “He wanted me to think he’s dead, that he does not exist here, but he does. He has to. Tell me where he is.”

“And why should the location of the king’s brother be of use to anyone?”

“I have a plan. And it involves him.”

Death was sceptic. He shifted back in his seat, his eagerness dampening.

“That’s not enough for me to commit treason, Castiel.”

The prisoner grit his teeth, and his face scrunched together like Dean used to do when he didn’t get his way. It made Dean realise just how young Castiel had been once, before this place had completely poisoned his mind.

“What happened to you?” he hissed angrily. “An ancient being, afraid to break the rules? You’re pathetic.”

“Careful, Castiel,” Death said slowly, his anger returning like the bubbling of lava before it erupted.

“Help me,” demanded Castiel then, not unkindly. “Tell me where he is. Once I am king you will be free. I give you my word.”

The scene disappeared once more. Once Dean’s eyes had adjusted, he realised he was standing in a dark place, its walls made up of rock and winding plants, the leaves turned brittle and brown with age. Castiel was there, unclothed, his skin clean but scarred. He was just as beautiful as he had been on the edge of that forest, when he had kissed Dean, when he had run his hands through his hair. He was doing that now, only, to a different man. Jealousy pummelled through Dean like a spike to his chest, alighting the shame that was already inside him.

“I love you,” Castiel was whispering, amidst desperate caresses. “God, I love you. Kiss me,” he demanded. “Open your mouth.”

The man moaned. It was not a voice Dean recognised, and although he stepped closer, the lover remained shrouded in darkness.

“Castiel…”

“I love you,” said the king. “I love you so much, it consumes me.”

“I know,” recalled the man. “I love you, too.”

Dean’s throat tightened as he tried to swallow. He hated seeing this. He wanted to disappear back into the darkness, so the sight of Castiel’s naked, wanting form could not torture him anymore.

“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Castiel whispered regretfully. He stood up, walked towards his pile of clothes and began to dress. A hand emerged from the darkness, then a figure. He hugged Castiel, and muffled into the nape of his neck.

“Then stay,” his lover said.

Castiel turned around, and placed his hands around the dark man’s face.

“You know I can’t,” he said softly. “I have to look after Anna, especially now, with every single one of his demons after us. Nowhere’s safe any more.” His hands fell away, and his face dropped. His whole body seemed to fall away until he was almost nothing.

“God, I’m tired,” he said in the darkness, and began to walk away.

But the figure refused to let him go.

“When will you next visit me?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said sadly. “Not for a while. It’s getting harder and harder for me to leave.”

‘Castiel, wait.”

The king was disappearing, but the voice made him stop once more.

“If it were safer, would you come back?”

Castiel stared at his lover sorrowfully, his eyes full of love and pain and heartbreak. Had he looked at Dean like that, when he had left through the white door?

“Of course I would, you know that,” he said achingly. “But your brother is winning. I don’t know how much fight I have left in me.”

“You can’t give up,” the figure said, going to him. “Not now. You know, I can’t remember the last time he visited me. He said he would. Every day. I haven’t seen him in years. You were the first person I saw in a millennia.”

“And to think, all because I got lost.”

They kissed, long and slow. Dean looked away.

“I’m so glad you found me,” the man said finally. “I thought I loved my brother, but that was because I had no one else to compare him to. Truth is, he never loved me. Once our destinies became clear he threw me away like I was nothing. But you—I won’t give you up. I won’t let you lose.”

Castiel looked at him strangely.

“What do you mean?”

“The magic he used to bind me here?” the man said, excitement edging in his voice. “I could teach you it.”

“You mean…”

“Yes. There is a way to defeat Lucifer. I can show you. Once it is done, will you set me free?”

Castiel smiled through a sigh, closed his eyes and kissed his lover again in a way that made Dean’s heart ache in his chest.

“Of course,” he said between kisses. “Of course. We can finally be together. I can finally look upon your face in daylight. Your sweet face…”

Both their forms became obscured by smoke. The darkness and the stone walls disappeared to reveal the tower Dean had found mere minutes ago. Anna was there, her face stricken with tears. Castiel stood by the door, looking back at her with a guilt that failed to seem genuine.

“Castiel!” Anna screamed. “Castiel, don’t you leave me here!”

“It’s for your own protection, Anna, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’ll only be a short while. There are still demons loyal to Lucifer, and they will use you to punish me for trapping him. I can’t risk that happening.”

Anna screamed in frustration, her fists curled up in balls as if ready to strike him. Castiel sighed and walked towards her, enveloping her crying face in his hands.

“Sweet sister,” he whispered. “Trust me. I will visit you, every day, and as soon as I am able I will let you out of here. You do believe me, don’t you?”

Anna had stopped crying. She took his hands in his, and Castiel smiled, because he thought she was forgiving him. Anna’s face hardened, however, and she pushed Castiel’s hands away.

“Maybe I did,” she said darkly, her voice full of hatred, “but not anymore.”

The scene shifted. They were stood in the throne room, only it was no longer Lucifer sitting on the thorned seat. Castiel was in it, dressed beautifully, his face set in a way that made him appear untouchable.

His servant, the man Dean recognised as the demon who had accompanied the king to Sam’s nursery, came walking in confidently.

“My lord,” he addressed, “you have a visitor.”

The door opened to reveal the small, disheveled appearance of the Prophet. He seemed so out of place, his clothes dirty and ragged, his face unshaven and glistening with sweat. Castiel did not notice. He arose from his throne, strode towards him, and clasped him in a warm, long hug.

“Chuck!” he cried warmly, finally breaking their embrace. “My old friend, come in. I’ve missed you. You don’t visit me as you used to. How’s Becky?”

He spoke quickly, excitedly, his eyes shining in delight. Chuck winced.

“She’s… fine,” he said in a quiet voice.

The king finally noticed his discontented expression. He looked at his friend seriously.

“What’s wrong, Chuck?”

Chuck met his gaze, a look of fear embedding in every wrinkle, every strand of hair.

“I had another prophecy.”

Castiel froze. He put a hand on Chuck and led him quickly to his throne.

“You did?” he asked urgently. “Tell me.”

Once they had sat down, Chuck winced again.

“It involves the boy,” he said with difficulty. “Dean.”

“What of him?” All playfulness in Castiel’s voice had disappeared.

“This plan you have…” Chuck began, his fingers grasped together nervously, “to bring the brothers here before they are meant to...”

“Yes. Yes,” Castiel hurried him. “Tell me.”

Chuck stared at him, apologetic, but resolute.

“It’s not going to work.”

“What?”

Chuck found his courage, and spoke louder.

“If you bring them here, if you have Dean journey through your labyrinth, he will win. Not only that: but you will die.”

Castiel screamed. Chuck fell out of his chair, and scrambled to his feet. Castiel was approaching him slowly, murder in his eyes.

“I came here to warn you!” Chuck yelled, pleading and desperate. “The mother still lives. Spare her, and all will be as it should!”

“I should have known you would try something like this,” Castiel said then. “I’ve known for a while.”

“Known what?”

“That you’re working against me! You haven’t been a friend to me in years. I chose to ignore it because I loved you like my own blood, but I can’t ignore it any more.”

“Like your own blood, Castiel?” Chuck screamed, no longer afraid. “Like Anna? Where is she, Castiel? What have you done with her?!”

Castiel stopped, stricken by a name he would not have heard uttered for many years.

“Get out,” he said calmly. “Get out and never return.”

The demons in the room began to close in on Chuck, their weapons ready in case he tried to attack.

“You have become _exactly_ like Lucifer,: Chuck said, unnoticed to the swarm. “In fact, you’re worse.”

“Another word, and I’ll send you—”

“To the Pool?” he said, almost laughing. “Do it. I’m not afraid.”

The demons were so close, they could almost touch him.

Castiel could do it. He wanted to; Dean could see it in his eyes.

“Get out,” was all he said, and the room disappeared.

When Dean realised where he was next, he couldn’t breathe.

He was watching himself, only the boy in front of him seemed like someone he had known long ago, but had forgotten.

He was in the yard—the old yard—he had a baseball glove on his right hand. He was grinning goofily, and laughing at someone further away.

“Dean, go long!”

It was his dad’s voice. Dean turned his head, the form of John filling his vision and leaving him close to breathless. He looked like a stranger, too, with his beard freshly shaved, his clothes clean, smiling from ear to ear. This hurt more. This hurt more than anything else.

His father threw a white ball that was in his hand. It raced through the air, missing Dean’s outstretched hand by a metre. It landed at the front of the lawn and rolled quickly into the side of the house, the force making it bounce back on to the grass.

Dean turned to look at it, then looked back at John and burst out laughing.

“What was that?” he shouted, but John shrugged.

“Not my fault you can’t catch.”

“Oh, you’re funny.”

The back door opened.

It was Mary, his mother—an angel in a white dress. She was holding a younger Sammy to her breast. He was smiling soundlessly from against her, his tiny fingers entwined in a lock of her hair.

“What’s funny, darling?” she asked Dean’s memory. His past self beamed at her, as did Dean now.

“Just dad’s pitching skills, that’s all,” he spoke cheerfully.

John huffed, walking from his spot at the back towards his wife.

“Hey,” he said in mock offence, “I was baseball captain in high school, you know.”

“Why?” Dean jibed. “Were you the only student with hands?”

Mary and John laughed, but Mary gave her son a stern look once they had settled.

“Be nice to your father, Dean,” she said.

“Or what?”

“Or,” began John, “I’ll take away the Impala.”

“You can’t do that!” Dean laughed, playfully punching John on his shoulder.

“I can,” chuckled John, grabbing at Dean’s fist and wacking it away, “and I will.”

“Pfft,” dismissed Dean. “You wouldn’t dare. Would he, Sammy?”

Sammy gurgled. He reached a chubby finger over to Dean and poked him on the nose. Dean laughed, holding his face in mock pain.

John put his arm around Mary, stroking little Sammy behind his ear.

“He’s looking more and more like you every day,” Mary whispered to John, her voice full of love.

“But he’s got his mother’s eyes,” came John’s reply. “And beautiful eyes they are, too.”

Mary smiled. John took a hold of her chin and kissed her gently. The Dean in the memory turned his face and pretended to wretch.

“Gross,” he said.

“Gross, is it?” laughed John. “Come here, Mer, let’s really embarrass him.”

They began to kiss again, slower and more passionate. Dean scrunched his eyes closed and shook his head.

“You’re disgusting,” he laughed.

Dean’s eyes flickered to something in a tree branch. A snowy white barn owl was watching the family, its blue eyes striking against the darkness of the leaves.

Dean opened his eyes. He was back in Anna’s tower, the woman’s lips still on his.

He gasped, pulling away quickly. Anna smiled at him sadly, but remained where she stood.

He could not believe what he had seen. A window into Castiel’s soul, memories of a man he used to be, a man who shaped himself into a monster. The last memory played itself in his head, of Mary… of how beautiful she was.

“That was the last day of my mother’s life,” he said to Anna, his voice cracking. “Castiel killed her.”

“Another sacrifice he had to make in order to remain king.”

Tears glistened in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall.

“He became everything he was fighting against,” Dean said then, watching the water in her eyes. “What happened to him?”

“His hunt for power destroyed him,” she said sorrowfully, “like power often does. And on that hunt he learnt a secret in the place you must go next.”

“What secret?”

“I don’t know,” Anna said, shaking her head. “But whatever it was, it was powerful enough to open a hole in the earth, and trap Lucifer deep within it.”

He debated her words. He turned to leave.

“You know, I could taste him on you.”

Dean’s steps faltered.

“I thought it was just a dream.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said kindly. “Don’t be ashamed,” Anna added, once she saw the expression on his face. “When Castiel wants something, he gets it. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“No. You’re wrong. A part of me… a part of me knew what was going on, and I let it anyway. I think I wanted it to happen.”

“Castiel found ways to control you.”

_Stop lying to yourself. Whatever spell you were cast under, you broke through it the moment he kissed you._

“No. He kissed me the first time, and I remembered. I remembered everything. What he did, what he took from me. I remembered, and I didn’t want him to stop.”

“Dean… if you’re having doubts about killing him…”

“No,” he shook his head. “Castiel is going to die. It’s the only way.”

Anna nodded solemnly, grimly.

“Go and get your weapon, then,” she said. “It’s time to end this.”

* * *

Castiel watched his crystal ball, his face blank.

The doors of the throne room flew open, the panting form of his servant stumbling through. Castiel turned his head, giving Crowley a quick look.

“My lord,” heaved Crowley, lumbering forwards. “Our scouts have spotted the prince making his way from your sister’s tower. He is going to the island. We can’t pretend any longer. The boy _will_ make it to the gates. We have to be ready.”

Of course, Castiel already knew this. He looked at Crowley, who was staring at him frantically, his fat little body gasping for air. He could have laughed.

“What would you suggest we do?” he asked his servant dully.

Crowley spluttered, aghast at the king’s disinterest.

“Arm the soldiers,” he clamoured, “man the walls—anything! We can’t let him get to you!”

Castiel merely sighed, resting his chin against his fist and fixating on a single stone that lay amidst the wall.

“Go to Lilith,” he said after a moment, his tone void of anything. “She will know what to do.”

Crowley breathed in slowly, nodding his head.

“Yes,” he said, his fear alleviating just a little. “Yes, my liege. I will speak with her, and bring back news of her guidance.”

Castiel looked away, back on to the broken fragments of his crystal ball.

“Just go.”

Crowley scowled, turned to leave. At the door, he paused.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” he asked the king cruelly. “He undid you completely.”

Castiel couldn’t even bring himself to answer.


	20. The First Brother

Dean closed the door to Anna’s tower, his hand feeling numb against the handle, his eyes vacant, his thoughts far away. It was quiet in the clearing. Raphael and his quarter-souls were sat together by the wall of spears, talking in hushed voices. They no longer patrolled the boundaries, for Castiel’s hold on them had been severed, like a shackle worn away by rain. With the sound of the door closing, they looked up. Raphael stood, and walked over to Dean.

“You are leaving?” he asked him.

Dean nodded.

“Where are the others?”

Raphael turned and pointed beyond the gate. Jo and Bobby were standing at the top of a hill shrouded by trees. They were bending over something.

“They are saying goodbye to your friend,” the quarter-soul stated indifferently.

Dean nodded, and left through the gate. He was glad to leave this place.

He walked up the hill, the figures of his group becoming clearer. Ash was laid down on the ground, his hands resting together on his stomach. The blood of his head wound had been cleaned, and the folds of his hair covered the worst of it. He looked almost peaceful, as if he were only sleeping. Jo was crouched over him, placing flowers she had found around his body. The petals were mostly brown and shrivelled, some had wilted all together—but there was a beauty in them nonetheless. Dean bent down next to Jo, and picked a flower up.

“Here,” he said kindly, “let me help.”

Jo wiped her eyes and sniffed.

“We don’t have any way of burying him,” she said bitterly, arranging a lock of hair so it fell against Ash’s cheek.

The flowers had been placed, and Jo and Dean stood up.

“It’s perfect,” said Dean, and he saw the corner of Jo’s mouth turn upwards, in the slightest hint of a smile.

“Jo,” said Bobby from beside them, “would you like to say a few words?”

She opened her mouth, tried to speak. Her chest hiccuped as she forced back a sob. Jo grit her teeth, and shook her head.

“I will, if that’s okay,” said Dean. Jo looked at him quickly. He thought she would refuse him, but instead she nodded.

“I didn’t know Ash for very long,” he said, “but from the little time I spent with him, he proved he was a good person, and that he cared about you, Jo, so much.” He heard Jo sniff from beside him, but continued. “From the minute I first got here, people have sacrificed themselves for me, for what they believe I can accomplish. I never wanted that to happen.” His chest felt tight. He looked down at Ash, and realised he didn’t look peaceful at all. Blood was running down his head again. His skin had shallowed to a pallid white. His face, though still, seemed to be twisted in anguish. Dean couldn’t look at him any longer.

“I let them down,” he said, almost to himself. “Goddamnit, I’m supposed to save people.”

“Dean.”

Jo was looking at him. Her face was wet but she was no longer crying. She tried to say something else, but Dean stopped her.

“No, it’s okay,” he said. He forced himself to look back at Ash, settling his gaze on the man’s closed eyes. He could not let his last memory of him be a bad one.

“Ash died braver than I could ever be,” he said then. “I won’t forget that. I won’t forget his sacrifice. None of us will.”

* * *

They left Ash’s body, and travelled back down the hill. They passed the Tower, and Dean looked up towards the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Anna on the way—but she wasn’t there. The three walked together in silence, for there was nothing anyone could say. Not only that, but Dean was _exhausted_. He had not had a minute’s rest since he had been transported to the labyrinth three days ago. He was desperate for a release, for the walking and fighting to end, for Castiel’s face to disappear from his mind, for Sammy to be safe and warm in his arms. Dean was so lost in his thoughts that he did not even notice the trees clearing, the feel of pebbles under his boots, and the soft sound of water lapsing against the shore.

“Dean,” he heard from beside him, “that must be the island.”

He stopped, blinking.

There was a huge body of water ahead of him, a lake so big it could have been an ocean. In the middle stood a body of land, slightly steeped, but too far away to discern what was on it. Dean stared at the island. The Righteous Weapon was there, somewhere, waiting for him; the last piece of the jigsaw.

“Look, a boat.”

There was a battered rowing boat lapsing by the shore, two oars placed inside, and two seats.

“We ain’t all fitting in that,” Bobby said gruffly, his hands on his hips.

“I’ll go alone.”

Jo put a hand on Dean’s shoulder, her eyes hard but anxious.

“No,” she said. “Let me come with you. Please.”

He had no right to refuse her. He walked over to the boat, reached inside, and handed Jo a paddle.

“Okay.”

* * *

They had been rowing long enough for the sight of Bobby to disappear. There was nothing around them now but water, and the sound of stillness against their oars. They had said nothing since leaving for the island. If Meg had been there, she would have undoubtedly made a quip or derisive jest by now, mocking the situation or events to come, but at the same time, it would have made Dean laugh. There was no point thinking of her now, he thought. She was gone, and she had proven Jo and everyone right by betraying them, by betraying Dean.

Despite his feelings, Dean couldn’t help but wonder…

“Thank you,” he suddenly heard, and any thought of Meg disappeared to the back of his mind.

“Thank you,” he heard again. Jo was smiling at him sadly from her seat in the boat, rowing slowly with her left hand. “For what you said about Ash.”

Dean tried to smile, to say thank you, but the words wouldn’t come out. It just didn’t feel right.

“I… I never wanted anyone to die for me, Jo,” he said stiffly. “I’m sorry.”

“I know you are,” replied Jo. “I was angry before; I realise that now—but this is bigger than all of us, even you. We knew not all of us would survive. I knew that; Ash knew it, too.”

“But it’s tearing me apart.”

Jo used her free hand to squeeze Dean’s knee.

“Have you not forgotten what you told me before we left the Pool?” she said, “You said their sacrifices weren’t for nothing, because you were going to make a change.”

Dean couldn’t look at her. He felt like a fraud, somehow.

“But I’m scared,” he finally forced himself to say. He stared into the lake, the water so dark it was bottomless.

“Don’t you think we all are?” he heard Jo say. “But, Dean, more than anything, we’re hopeful. We know you can do this. I know.” She put a hand on him. He looked up, finally, and she was smiling. “I believe in you.”

She meant it; she really did. Dean squeezed her hand tightly.

“Thank you,” he said.

“When all of this is over,” Jo said then, letting go of his hand, “when Castiel is dead, and we go back home—will you come and find me?”

He thought of her then, what it would be like to see her in the real world. It was a pleasant thought.

“I promise.”

They rowed in silence again for the next few minutes, until Dean’s oar brushed itself against raised earth, grazing the pebbles.

“We’re here,” Jo said.

Dean turned around. They had arrived at the island at last. Only, it did not seem much like an island now—the cave in which he was to enter made up the entire mound. Like a black hole, it had consumed the space. It seemed to call to him in little whispers, through the wailings of a wind that did not exist.

“That cave…” Dean said quietly, getting out of the boat. “It’s like I recognise it somehow. Like I’ve been here before.”

“That’s impossible,” Jo said from beside him, dragging the boat further on to shore.

He looked at her quickly, then back at the cave.

“I know,” he said simply, but he could not escape the familiarity of it all.

Jo overtook him, grabbing his arm as she did.

“Come on. Let’s go inside.”

“Password?”

Before they had a chance to enter, a woman had appeared before them, as if out of thin air. Dean’s stomach lurched in surprise—her eyes were bright white and staring right through him.

“Shit,” he uttered. “Jo.”

For a moment they just stood there, the woman staring at them with unfocused severity. Then, her mouth flickered, lifting at the sides. Before Dean could even process it, the woman had doubled over and was laughing ceaselessly, her hands on her stomach. When she was finished, she looked back up at Dean, and gave him a grin.

“Oh, I’m just joking with you, handsome,” she said jovially.

Dean blinked.

“Are you a demon?”

The woman crossed her arms, unamused. In the back of his head, the face of Meg appeared. This woman reminded him of her.

“I find that offensive,” she feigned. “Don’t you know the difference between demon eyes and blind ones?”

“She’s telling the truth,” perked Jo. “She’s a soul.”

The blind woman winked.

“Thanks for vouching for me,” she said. “Now, how can I help you?”

Dean cleared his throat.

“Um, we’d like to go inside the cave, please.”

She nodded.

“ _You_ can, but I’m afraid your lady friend is going to have to wait outside.”

“Why?” Jo asked, scowling.

“There’s a lot of, um, let’s put it simply—Hocus Pocus in there. Anyone but the Righteous Prince goes in and it would be, well… it wouldn’t be pretty for you, darling.”

Jo sighed, but knew it would be pointless to argue.

“Fine,” she said, taking a step back. “I’ll wait outside.”

“Oh, don’t be like that,” the woman said. “I’m wonderful company, grumpy.”

She focused on Dean now, her blind eyes drinking him in.

“Now,” she said ominously. “I believe you have something for me, handsome.”

Dean raised his brows. He looked at Jo for answers but she was sulkily picking at her fingernails. He looked back at the woman and blinked.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said stupidly.

The blind woman chuckled.

“Did Anna not give you anything before you left?”

_Anna?_

“Well no, except—.”

_Except a kiss._

Somehow, the woman knew exactly what he was thinking; could see the look on his face.

“Bingo,” she said, smiling.

She beckoned him with a single finger. Dean approached her nervously. She closed her eyes— _you know_ , he found himself thinking, _she really does remind me of Meg_ , and put a hand around his neck. They touched lips softly then, and deep within the recesses of the cave Dean could hear a shifting, an awakening. When he pulled away, the blind woman put her mouth to his ear.

“I think we made your lady friend jealous,” she whispered.

Dean looked at Jo, who in turn was very deliberately studying a pebble by her feet.

“The cave is ready for you,” the woman said, stepping aside. “Good luck in there, handsome.”

Dean smiled, and took a step forward.

“You know,” he said, pausing at the entrance, “if you can’t see, how do you know I’m handsome?”

“Please,” the blind woman guffawed. “I’m blind, not stupid. Castiel wouldn’t be kicking up such a fuss if you weren’t.”

* * *

The cave was nothing but blackness stretching for miles. It truly was a black hole, devouring him with every step. He could not tell of any ‘Hocus Pocus’ as the woman had warned, only the torturous dark and cruel silence in which he could not escape his own thoughts.

His foot knocked against something in his path. He put his hands out to break his fall, but there was nowhere he could dive into. He was at a wall—a dead end. Dean’s stomach dropped. He had not noticed any turns or extra pathways—if this cave was a labyrinth in itself, and he had gone this far blindly, Dean worried he would never find his way back out.

Before he could lose hope completely, he noticed something in front of him, a light of sorts. As he studied it, he realised that they were bright orange words searing—burning themselves into the cavern wall:

 _What am I?_  
_I am bottomless, never-ending_  
_The more I consume the more I’m extending_  
_Craving, lost, forgotten and violent_  
_Inside me, your world will never be silent_

“A riddle, really?” he said aloud.

The wall remained as it was. Dean sighed, rubbing his eyes, and forced himself to read it again.

And again.

And again.

The words jumbled in his mind until they were echoing. What could it mean? This whole place, this entire labyrinth was never-ending and violent, and all the creatures in it were lost and forgotten.

Then he remembered another place he had been while inside Castiel’s world, a place so awful he had willed it from his mind, a place preceding that beautiful white ballroom where he had given himself to a greedy man so willingly…

“The Pool of the Lost,” he said to the wall. “You’re the Pool of the Lost.”

The stone instantly began to crumble, falling away until the path had cleared completely and Dean could step though. Immediately he could see that the end of the cave was nearing. He could see something at the edge, but it was not clear enough to discern. He began walking faster, almost running—until he saw it.

There was a man, hanging from the wall ahead of him. His head was bowed and his arms were outstretched in crucifixion. He was suspended with chains, and on the ends of them were hooks that pierced him in place, cleaved through his skin. As Dean got closer, the man looked up. His eyes were glassy and far away, as if Dean was an apparition, barely there. Though half-dead, Dean thought, the man was still beautiful, or as close to beautiful as a shadow could be. The man’s eyes finally settled on Dean’s. Despite his weakness, he tried to smile.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, his voice a cracked whisper.

“W-who did this to you?” It pained Dean just to look at him. He put a hand on a grapple that dug into his side.

The man let out a troubled, tired sigh.

“A man I loved, long ago. There’s no need to try and free me, Dean. The chains don’t hurt me anymore.”

Dean reluctantly put his hand back down.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Michael,” he said. “I am the Righteous Prince.”

“What?”

Michael laughed, then winced.

“You can’t have thought you were the first brother to come here? I am the one who came before, the one who was meant to free this place, and all those in it. I failed.”

“Your brother was Lucifer?”

“He was the Damned Prince,” nodded Michael. “He was meant to rule and conquer this land, and he did. The war we waged was long and bloody, and in the end he was just too strong. He loved me, my brother; that was why he kept me in this place, hid me from those that would use me against him. But he forgot me, eventually. He promised me he wouldn’t… and then, one day, a thousand years later, a man stumbled into my cave, and asked me the very same questions you just did.”

The flicker of an image settled itself in Dean’s head, of a man with dark hair and bright blue eyes, eyes that were beautiful, but cruel.

“Castiel.”

“He said he’d gotten lost,” Michael mused, “that he’d found the cave by accident. I was so desperate with loneliness that I believed him.”

Dean recognised that loneliness. He’d seen it in Anna’s Tower. Watching Castiel kiss another man had filled him with a childish envy, but now he felt nothing but guilt.

“I saw a memory,” Dean said quietly, “of the two of you.”

“I gather I must have looked quite foolish,” Michael replied. “You see, I loved Castiel more than anything, and I thought he loved me, too. I told him of a way to trap Lucifer. He would have to cage his sister as Lucifer had done to me, and in return, he would free us, all of us, and be with me away from the dark.”

Michael’s voice was getting stronger now, louder.

“Of course, it was all a lie,” he said, and now he sounded hateful. “Castiel wanted the throne and nothing else. He shackled me, put hooks through my skin, and then he abandoned me forever.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Dean lamented the First Brother’s fate. To be alone for so long, and then to be alone again, only now helpless to move; his body a catalyst of pain and regret—Dean could barely comprehend it. But Michael no longer seemed to mourn. He shook his head kindly.

“Don’t be,” he smiled. “I have learnt to love my wounds. These chains have become my only friends.”

“But the pain.”

Michael smiled again. He was beautiful. He wasn’t a shadow; he was a man. Dean could imagine himself through Castiel’s eyes, then—it couldn’t have been hard, pretending to love him. That kiss he saw in the memory was real, which is what made it all the more harrowing.

“I do not feel such things anymore,” Michael said. “I have only waited, until the next brother came.”

Dean took a step closer, holding his breath in prescience.

“Do you have the Righteous Weapon?” he asked, his voice eager and fearful, both at once.

“I do,” Michael nodded. He did not say anything again for a moment; he only stared at Dean, eager and fearful as well.

“Dean,” he whispered then. “Touch my face. Let me feel something.”

Dean lifted his hand. Michael’s face was the only part of him not marred by hooks. As he laced his fingers against the man’s cheek, he was startled to realise the temperature of it: Michael was scalding. It was like touching raw flame.

Before he could pull his hand away, something changed—a flash of orange, a smell of burning. Michael’s face, his entire body, was licked in fire. He was alight before Dean’s very eyes.

“Michael!”

It did not take long. Within a few seconds, the First Brother had been consumed by the flames entirely. He loosened from his shackles, the hooks dissolved from his flesh. His body fell to the floor, and now he was a shadow again.

Dean stared at him, his heart fit to burst in his chest. He had done that. He had touched Michael’s face and ignited him. How many more were to die by Dean’s hand?

He closed his eyes, helpless and despondent—and when he opened them, he saw something that made the world stop turning.

From the flames, she had been reborn. She stood, her hair long and golden, dressed in the nightgown she had worn that night, six months ago. She was smiling at him.

“M-mom?”

He could not stop the tears from falling. Mary opened her arms and Dean fell into them. She smelled the same, of lilac soap and fresh linen. Dean buried himself into her neck.

“Hello, baby,” Mary said as she held him. “I’ve missed you.”


	21. The Righteous Weapon

He did not let go. He couldn’t. Mary was holding him, the way she had done when he was a child just woken from a nightmare. He breathed in her scent, let her blonde hair tickle his nose. If this was a trick, then it was the sweetest deception he had ever known.

Mary pulled away slowly. She smiled at him, and wiped away his tears. Her touch was so soft he barely felt it. He grabbed on to her hand, just to prove its solidity. He did not know if he was staring at an angel or a semblance of one.

“Are you real?”

His mother laughed sadly, and kept a hold of his hand.

“Yes. No,” she said. “I don’t know what I am. But I can feel you.” She put the same hand to his face, and brought him close again. “I can hold you like this. That’s all that matters.”

“Mom,” he whispered into her neck, the tears falling again. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’ve made so many mistakes since the fire. You must be so ashamed.”

“Ashamed?”

Mary clasped his face, her blue eyes searing into his.

“No, Dean,” she said firmly, kindly, so full of love. “I’m proud of you.”

“But, Sammy… he’s in this place because of me.”

“Not you,” she shook her head. “Do you really think that you came here by accident, because you wished it? Dean, surely you must realise now that this was all inevitable.”

He stood there dumbly.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“You’re special,” Mary declared, her voice echoing throughout the cavern walls. “Both of you. You always were, since before you were even born.”

Had he known that before, before this place, before the fire? Did he really think he was going to grow up and become a mechanic like his father? Would he have been happy with a subtle life, a mere whimper in the universe? No, he suppose he wouldn’t.

“You knew, didn’t you,” Dean said, “about this place? _The Tale of Two Brothers_ ; you used to tell me that story before I went to sleep. You used to call me and Sam princes.”

Mary smiled wistfully.

“Yes. I knew.”

“Did you know… did you know about—”

He couldn’t get the words out. His mother stroked his hair and finished his sentence for him.

“About the fire?”

He nodded. Seeing Michael burn had rebounded Dean back to that moment. The smell clogging and thick, the smoke heavy, as solid as concrete. And Mary, in her white nightgown, pleading with him to leave her as she disappeared behind a blaze.

“I did not know I was going to die. You see, Castiel changed the design of fate when he became king. He corrupted it, and so corrupted our family. You and Sam, together you make the Righteous and the Damned. But what is Castiel? He’s neither. He’s both. He’s a mutation, an anomaly. By him trapping Lucifer he could vary the will of the universe.”

Her words terrified him, sent a shudder through his very core.

“Mom,” he pleaded, as clueless as a child. “I still don’t understand.”

Mary smiled, bringing herself closer.

“When I was a girl,” she started, “a man would visit me in my dreams. His name was Michael. He told me I would have two sons, and in my second born's fifteenth year, a world eons away but just beneath the surface would call to you both to fight for it. It took me years to finally accept the truth, but when you were born, I knew I had to prepare you some how. If you knew, even if a semblance of you knew, then maybe you could save each other.”

Dean took a deep breath.

“But when Castiel became king it all changed.”

Mary nodded.

“Michael stopped visiting me, and instead I saw a different man. By the time I knew what he had planned for you it was too late.” Her voice cracked a little, but she did not stop.

“He killed me. His servant, Azazel, willed the fire, and then climbed himself into the body of your father.”

Azazel. The demon with the yellow eyes. He had taunted Dean, tortured him, came to him in the flesh of John Winchester, and spoke to him in his voice.

“I killed him. I killed Azazel.”

Mary nodded, tears forming in her eyes.

“The worst thing Castiel ever did was make you think that John didn’t love you,” she said softly, “for making him hurt you the way he did.”

“The bruises didn’t hurt,” said Dean. “It was the look in his eyes when he saw me. The blame of me not being able save you.”

“That was not John.” Mary’s voice was firm, absolute, the first flash of anger in her soft blue eyes. He looked down at her, and her fists were clenched.

“I know that now,” he said, taking her closed hands in his. “Castiel wanted me to hate him. To hate everything, including Sammy.”

“Yes,” Mary affirmed, nodding. The anger had subsided and she held back on to Dean fiercely. “If both of you were to enter the labyrinth fifteen years from now, Castiel would be doomed. But forcing you here now, an angry teenage boy and a baby, the king could use you to his own advantage, and shape the world further than he could ever do alone. But Castiel made one mistake.”

“What?”

His mother smiled.

“He underestimated you.”

Mary kissed his hands, then, her face shifting to a somber, careful expression.

“Darling,” she whispered. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not going to like it. But you have to promise to listen.”

Uneasiness crept into the pit of his stomach, his chest tightening as if embalmed with smoke. But he could not be scared anymore. He had to be strong, for her.

“Okay,” he said.

Mary did not speak for several moments, she bit her lip, avoided his gaze. She sighed.

“Mom…” started Dean.

“Your brother would win,” said Mary suddenly, halting him in place. “If you came here when you were supposed to, Sam would turn against you and destroy everything.”

Dean stammered, blinking.

“How do you—”

“He’s a baby,” Mary interrupted, a sadness in her eyes he had never seen when she was alive. “Perfect and innocent. But he is the Damned prince for a reason, Dean. You are a descendent of Michael, as he is of Lucifer. There is a darkness inside of him, one that will grow and twist with age. Castiel knows that, that is why he brought you here when Sam was so defenceless. But as I said, he underestimated you. He has watched you, always, never even conceiving you as a threat. But after all these years have passed, seeing you become a man, a fighter, he has doomed himself in another way entirely.”

“In what way, Mom?”

Mary sighed.

“The Weapon… on its own, it could never kill Castiel.” She looked at him then, into him, through to his very core.

“It was always going to be you, no matter what you wielded.”

Her words were a riddle, a fantastical stream of complexity and knowing. He felt hopeless to hear them, dumbfounded. He was desperate to understand and frustrated that he didn’t.

“What do you mean?” He felt almost angry, frantic—but the sound of his mother’s soft chuckle and her hand on his cheek, immediately settled him into balance.

“Oh, baby,” she said, smiling. “I love you, but you really don’t catch on quickly, do you? It is his love for you that will kill him. Not the war. Not the Weapon—you.”

“I don’t…” started Dean slowly, “he doesn’t…”

“He tried to trap you inside a dream,” Mary said, “a dream where you could be together always. He wasn’t king in that dream, was he? He was a man. You were equals. He didn’t have to do that; he could have locked you away like he did Michael. And when he kissed you, you remembered. He wanted you to remember and to love him anyway. Can’t you see it now?”

There was no façade to hide behind now, no cloak of doubt. Mary had seen inside the amulet and uncovered a truth Dean had been aching to forget and relive both at once. She was right. Castiel had been different in the ballroom, different in the forest he had created for them, and them alone. It hadn’t just been a trick, a prison in which to make Dean suffer. Castiel had given himself to Dean because he loved him. He loved him.

He loved him.

“Yes,” said Dean finally.

He felt something in his hands, something cold, and heavy.

“You’re so close now, Dean,” his mother said. “Take it.”

He looked down. He was staring at a sword, ancient and grand, with red and gold jewels on the thick silver hilt. This was it, the Righteous Weapon, the weapon he would use to plunge into the heart of his enemy, of his lover, of the man he begged to save.

He looked back at his mother, then, and something about her was different. She had dulled, faded, like a ghost against glass. He grabbed a hold of her hand, but there was nothing there.

“After Castiel dies,” he spoke to her urgently, “will it reverse the fire? Will your soul come back?”

Mary smiled at him sadly, but even her happiness seemed shadowed now.

“I’m dead, Dean, not lost. You can’t save everyone. But you can save your brother.”

She was paling, dissapearing amongst the cavern rocks. He could not bear to see her go, not now that he had finally found her.

“Please,” he begged, his hand reaching out and touching nothing but air, “don’t leave me again.”

Her voice was distant, an imitation. He could no longer see her, but her whisper conquered the darkness, if only for a moment.

“ _I’ll never leave you, Dean. I’ll always be with you._ ”

* * *

By the time he emerged from the cave, he felt like a thousand years must have passed since first entering it. Jo was sat on the edge of the boat, looking numbly across the lake. With the sound of his footsteps, she looked towards him. The sword was sheathed through his belt, and the sight of it made her eyes widen.

“You have it,” she said, standing. “Let me see.”

He unsheathed it slowly, the sound of it, slicing, prolonged, rang through his body and made the hair on his arms rise up. Jo touched it, ran her finger down the brunt of the blade and caressed the jewels. There was something in her eyes, a look of awe, perhaps, or greed.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

He did not like the way she was looking at it. Anger niggled under his skin like tiny needles. He removed the sword from her hands and put it back through his belt quickly. Jo looked disappointed, but said nothing more.

“Let’s go,” Dean said, leading the way.

He handed Jo an oar, waited for her to get inside, and then pushed it slowly back on to the water.

They rowed in silence, Dean staring fixatedly at the land ahead of him, where his destiny so smugly was waiting for him.

After a while, Jo spoke up, eyeing him anxiously.

“What happened in there? You seem different.”

What was he supposed to say? That he saw his mother? That Castiel loves him? That deep down, in a secret part inside of him, he loves Castiel back?

“I just…” he sighed. “I can’t believe we’re almost at the end. I’m gonna put this sword through Castiel’s heart.”

Jo looked at him strangely, or eagerly—Dean didn’t know. He did know that he did not want to speak of the cave, or the sword, ever again. Too much had happened. Too much had been taken away. It was torture, the memory of her face, the smell of her skin, her voice and her words, her warnings, her answers. His brother was… what, exactly? It was hard to imagine a future in which Sam would be willing to hurt others, to hurt him. He did not know if he could believe it, but then, if he didn’t, he would be forced to disregard everything else his mother had said. He cursed himself internally. Everything had been so simple when he had first entered the labyrinth. Find Sam. Kill Castiel. Go home. Now, what was he left with? When the time really came, what was he going to do?”

“Dean, stop rowing.”

It was Jo’s voice, pulling him from the thoughts he had been lost in. They were back on land. Bobby lend a hand to Jo as she got out, then extended it to Dean. Once he was out, Bobby huffed.

“You took your time,” he lectured. Then, he spotted the sword resting on Dean’s side. “Wow, that thing is…”

“It’s a king-killer, is what it is,” interjected Jo from beside him. “Come on,” she said then, taking the lead. “We can see the castle from here. It won’t take us long to reach the gates.”

She was right. Directly ahead of them he saw the outline of a kingdom, tall and beautiful and vulgar, as it lay amidst a wall so high it almost shrouded the highest spire.

They began walking. Bobby touched his arm.

“You okay, Dean?”

The feel of Bobby’s hand jolted him, and he almost backed away. The look of concern on his friend’s face forced a laugh out of Dean, and he playfully punched Bobby’s arm.

“I’m fine, Bobby. Thanks.”

His friend smiled warmly, which only served in feeding the new guilt that had formed inside him.

“You’ll see your brother soon,” Bobby said kindly.

For the first time, those words filled him with dread.

* * *

In a throne room, amidst a castle, inside a city, stood an empty glass screen mounted on a wall. Castiel had noticed its bareness almost immediately, but had said nothing. It was his servant, Crowley, who let its emptiness known, gasping and spluttering with great panic and agitation.

“The sword,” he said, rushing over to the king, “it’s gone!”

“Yes,” confirmed Castiel dully. “I presume Dean found Michael. He has it now.”

“My lord…” deliberated Crowley slowly, shaking his head, “if you die, what will become of us? Become of me?”

Castiel chuckled coldly. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the throne.

“I think you’ll be quite all right without me, Crowley,” he said laxly. “I don’t suppose I’ve been a very good king, have I? This world might be better off without me in it.”

“How can you say that?”

Castiel looked at his servant, his fat chest panting; irritation swelling in his piggish eyes. He felt nothing.

“I’ve wasted a lot of years preparing for this moment,” he said. “Now it’s here, I… I can no longer remember why I wanted to be king. Chuck was right; bringing the princes here before they were meant to was a mistake. I’ve made… so many mistakes, and now I have to pay for them.”

“You’re pathetic,” Crowley said, all carefulness forgotten. “You might as well open the gate and meet him with your hands up.”

Castiel stood.

“Will you watch over Sam for me, Crowley?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t heard. “There’s somewhere I need to go.”

Crowley looked amusedly appalled as he watched his king walk away.

“You’re leaving?”

“Just for a while.” He stopped, approached his servant. He placed two hands around his face, and touched their foreheads together.

“Crowley,” he whispered. “I want to thank you for your service. You were loyal to Lucifer, I know, but you have been good to me since the war.”

He pulled away, and smiled.

“Are you saying goodbye?” his servant asked, as the king began to dissipate in a whirl of black smoke.

“I am forgiving you, Crowley,” the king corrected, “for what you are about to do.”


End file.
